


Let Me Romance With You

by CaptainLeBubbles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley are That Couple and it's disgusting, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, M/M, Wedding Planning, nobody wants what's happening to be happening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLeBubbles/pseuds/CaptainLeBubbles
Summary: News just in: Aziraphale and Crowley are getting married! Finally!Unfortunately, what should be a pleasant and joyous time for them is about to be turned into a second attempt at Armageddon, as Gabriel and Beelzebub are foisted onto them as wedding planners against their and everyone's wishes.Too bad Anathema burned that book. It would have been nice to see this coming.





	1. There Is Spring In the Air Once Again

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a funny idea and now it's turning itself into a multi-chapter monster. Strap in, folks, it's gonna be a ride.

If Agnes Nutter’s second book of prophecies had not been destroyed, her descendent might have been able to spend the next several months preparing for the coming end of the world: the second attempt at Armageddon, less than a year after its first rather disastrous go.

 _This_ Armageddon is not heralded by disasters, at least not disasters on a global scale, and does not start out with a war, though it will descend into one, and Death is there, but he's off-duty at the time.

This time Armageddon will be started by a wedding, by the union between an angel and a demon.

Those who are familiar with the story of the first averted Armageddon will be familiar with Aziraphale and Crowley and the deep bond they share. For them Aramageddon is a love story, and not too long [1] after the end of the world they wrote their finale, when Aziraphale finally closed the distance he’d been keeping between them and the two became rather closer than Angel and Demon have ever been. [2]

It’s been rather a nice several months since then. They’ve moved into Aziraphale’s upstairs flat together, making a home in the space that Aziraphale had once done very little with. Crowley’s plants mingle with Aziraphale’s books in the shop, except for those deemed worthy of a coveted space in the sunny, warm bedroom [3], and the pair have adopted some domestic habits they’ve never even considered before now.

All in all, it’s a nice arrangement, but both of them have felt like something is _missing_ , which brings us to the start of our story, which begins- and ends- rather appropriately, in a garden.

-/-

 

> [1]Depending on who you ask. There are certain interested parties who feel that their union has been several millennia overdue.
> 
> [2]That is to say, Aziraphale finally allowed himself to love his demon the way a man loves a woman, assuming the man in question is indeed the sort of man who loves women, which is not the sort of man Aziraphale would be, if he were a man and not an angel.
> 
> [3]Those in the bedroom might have the worse end of the deal. Crowley places a great deal of pressure on them to grow better than those downstairs, in order to earn their place, and he has a one-strike policy.

-/-

It’s been a quiet winter, mostly because Crowley had decided to hibernate, and has spent the past few months wrapped in several layers of blankets under a sun lamp. He got up exactly once, mumbled something groggy about needing to do something, disappeared for most of the day, and then returned that evening with no explanation before slithering back into bed and going back to sleep.

But today it’s warm, and Crowley has woken up from his nap, and they’ve finally got around to that picnic that Aziraphale suggested several decades ago.

Crowley is distracted. He can’t help it; there’s a weird giddiness in him that he’s trying to keep under control. He’s chalking it up to having just woken up, but really he knows it’s the anticipation for what he’s got planned for the evening. He’s been dreaming about it all winter- ever since one morning when Aziraphale had pulled back the covers and settled into Crowley’s cocoon with him, and just stayed there all day. He’s always known what he wanted, but that was the moment he _knew_ , the moment he decided-

-and now he just needs to wait till this evening. He’s got it all planned. He’s got the perfect place, the perfect moment in mind, and it will never do to let Aziraphale know that something’s up before they even get there.

If Crowley were not so distracted, he might have already noticed that Aziraphale also seems to be suppressing a large amount of giddiness that doesn’t line up with his usual response to a nice piece of cake. But he hasn’t been paying enough attention, and so Aziraphale’s next words are going to take him by surprise.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sets his empty plate down and turns his full attention to the demon, reaching over to rest a hand over Crowley’s.

Crowley has, for the past several minutes, been staring off into space, trying to get his head on straight so he doesn’t spoil his reveal too soon, and now he snaps back into reality and turns to Aziraphale, humming a question.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Aziraphale says, and then corrects, “Ask you, actually. Come here.” He pats the space beside him, and Crowley moves into it willingly, glad for the proximity. Aziraphale takes both his hands, and then falls silent.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Angel?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale purses his lips, then reaches up and takes Crowley’s sunglasses very gently from him. “There, that’s better. You don’t have to hide from _me_ , dearest.”

“That what you wanted to tell me?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, I just wanted to- well…” He ducks his head in embarrassment before looking up and pressing on. “I want to see you.”

“Look all you want,” Crowley says, unsure of where this is going. He obligingly tucks his glasses away into his jacket, and lets Aziraphale take his hands again.

“Crowley- dearest-” Aziraphale takes a breath. “I love you. You know that, I hope. I hope I’ve made it clear.” He looks down at their joined hands, and draws them to him, pulling Crowley closer. “I’ve had some time to think while you were napping. I love you, I love having you at the shop with me, but I feel as if something is _missing_ from us. Something- something very important. And, if you’ll have me, I’d like to fix that.”

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley is not an idiot. He’s clever, really, and he’s certainly clever enough to recognize that he is being proposed to.

Now, most people who are thinking of how much they’d very much like to marry the angel they love would be happy to be proposed to by said angel. One might expect delight, or elation, or rapture, or some other emotion related to the idea of intense paroxysms of joy.

What one wouldn’t expect, and what Crowley does, is open his mouth and frown incredulously.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” he says.

“I’d like to marry you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and then breaks off. “Wait, what?”

“Did you seriously just propose?” Crowley demands, because he is, indeed, an idiot.

Aziraphale’s face falls as his heart shatters. He lets go of Crowley’s hands, folds his own in front of him. “A no would have sufficed,” he grumbles, trying desperately to keep his voice from cracking.

Crowley does not notice this. He is too caught up in his own exasperation. “I mean, really! I had _plans_ , angel!” (He does not notice, either, the way Aziraphale almost flinches at the address.) “I was going to take you to that little antique shop you like- and the to St. James’ for a stroll- I had a reservation at the Ritz, I _actually made a reservation at the Ritz_ \- it was going to be perfect!”

He has fallen into a fullblown pout at this point, while a smile is slowly spreading across Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale has caught onto what Crowley is saying, and Aziraphale is just as capable of recognizing when he is being proposed to. He takes one of Crowley’s hands in his own, and his other comes up to catch Crowley’s chin, effectively silencing him as he turns the demon’s attention back to himself.

“My dear,” he says, very gently, “were you planning to propose to me this evening?”

Crowley pouts, and reaches up his free hand to wrap around the one on his chin. “Yes. I had it _planned_ . It was going to be _perfect_.”

“Then may I assume your answer is yes? Or will you say no to spite me for stealing your thunder?”

“Of _course_ the answer is yes, don’t be an idiot,” Crowley says, the hypocrite.

Aziraphale gives a little nod at this, and reaches into his pocket for the ring that he bought several months ago, coincidentally after the day Crowley woke up from his nap and disappeared for most of the day and Aziraphale had spent the whole time lonely for him. Crowley has gone all soft at the edges and allows Aziraphale to maneuver his hand so that he can slip the ring on his finger.

It’s a nice ring. It’s stylized to look like a pair of wings, crossed over each other on his finger. One is lined with diamond, the other with onyx; it’s not even a little subtle, and Crowley loves it. He takes a long moment to admire it, the way it catches the light, and then surges forward without warning, taking Aziraphale’s jaw in his hands and pulling him close, meeting him in a deep kiss.

He breaks away just enough to say, “I love you,” and then, “Of course I’ll have you, angel,” and then, “How could you have ever thought you’d be refused?”

“Because you acted offended and started ranting,” Aziraphale reminds him, and then doesn’t say much else, because Crowley won’t stop kissing him long enough to get a proper sentence out, and he doesn’t have anything to say that is important enough to make Crowley stop kissing him anyway.

-/-

“We could still do your proposal,” Aziraphale points out, because he’s thought about it and decided he likes the idea of being courted. “You went through all that trouble to plan it. It will be a story to tell the children, certainly.” [4]

“I guess we could,” Crowley concedes, but the wind has been taken out of his sails a bit. His proposal would be fun, he thinks, and he will probably decide on it soon, but he’s feeling somewhat petulant over Aziraphale beating him to the matter when he’s spent the last six thousand years waiting for Aziraphale to catch up in the first place.

“Let me know what you decide, then,” Aziraphale says, not intending to play Crowley’s game. “What shall we do in the meantime?”

“We-ll…” Crowley shrugs. “I don’t see any reason I can’t take you the places I’d planned either way. It is a special day.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, and takes Crowley’s hand, pleased to feel the ring cool against his skin. He hopes Crowley does decide to go through with his proposal; he wants to feel Crowley’s ring pressed against his own. “We’re celebrating our engagement.”

The grin Crowley gives him at that matches his own.

-/-

 

> [4] Said children being the Them, because Adam had liked the idea of having godfathers and once they started visiting it was only natural they should adopt the other three under their wings as well, and Anathema and Newt, who are adults but also very much children from where Aziraphale and Crowley are standing.

-/-

That evening they go to the Ritz, where Crowley has indeed taken the time to make reservations the human way, and then when dinner is drawing to a close, when even Aziraphale has had his fill and the pair are enjoying a nice glass of wine and soaking up the atmosphere, Crowley slips out of his seat and Aziraphale’s heart stops.

He looks rather like a man praying, the way he kneels at Aziraphale’s feet. Aziraphale, who has been waiting all day for this, suddenly finds himself drowning in the love pouring off of his demon when Crowley takes his hands.

“Angel,” Crowley says lowly. Every eye in the Ritz is on them, but Crowley ignores all of them. This is just for them. “I don’t have any fancy speech for you. I didn’t think to plan what I was going to actually _say_. I just- marry me, angel. Let’s walk into eternity together.”

“Oh my dearest… Oh _Crowley_.” Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hands to his lips, brings Crowley back to his seat, and tries not to cry. “Yes. Yes, of course. I love you. Of course.”

They’re dimly aware of congratulations from onlookers, who cannot have failed to correctly interpret what they’ve witnessed. Aziraphale ignores them in favor of watching Crowley take out the ring he’d bought and slip it onto Aziraphale’s finger. He holds it up to the light to admire it.

It’s a snake, its coils making the body of the ring, its head and tail curled almost protectively around a grey-green gem. It’s no less subtle than the other, and he feels tears welling up again.

“It’s perfect, dear,” he murmurs, and takes Crowley’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together and liking the way the two rings look so close to each other.

Crowley glances around, taking in their audience, who are at least trying to be politely discreet about the fact their attention is centered on the two men. “You wanna get out of here, angel?”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

-/-

It has been, in Crowley’s opinion, the best first day of spring there ever was. He should know; he’s had some six thousand years worth of first days of spring to compare to.

 _None_ of them compare to this one.

“So, got anything in mind for the wedding?”

“I was thinking it might be nice to have the actual ceremony in a garden somewhere,” Aziraphale muses. “We met in a garden, after all. And you do so love being surrounded by plants.”

“Dunno where you got that idea,” Crowley says, because he thinks he has a reputation to protect. “A garden ceremony sounds nice, though. Very _earthly_.”

Aziraphale smiles, and allows Crowley to open the door to the Bentley for him and hold out a steadying hand while Aziraphale slides in. It’s completely unnecessary, but it gives them a few moments longer of contact, and anyway, it’s sweet.

A mere moment later Crowley slides into the driver’s seat, and their hands join once more between them.

The drive home is comfortable, with Aziraphale regaling Crowley with a tale about some customer he’d dealt with over the winter- a gentleman who’d come in every day for nearly three weeks in an effort to buy one of Aziraphale’s prized Wodehouse misprints, a Jeeves novel featuring a typo that implied it was _Jeeves_ , not Bobbi Wickham, that Bertie intended to marry. By the time they make it back to the shop and are strolling up to the door, Crowley is convinced that the customer had merely been attempting to woo Aziraphale rather than having any real interest in the book in question.

“Now _really_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale chides him. “I think to the average human I am far less appealing than a rare book, particularly if that book is a Wodehouse.”

“I know vanity isn’t very angelic, but I’d think even _you_ would have realized by now how handsome you are. Got those eyes, got that… face...” [5]

Aziraphale tuts, but looks pleased, and is about to wave open the door when Gabriel appears in front of them, standing between them and the shop. Crowley’s hand comes up to clutch at Aziraphale’s shoulder, ready to shove him away if it comes to blows. He’s pretty sure he and Aziraphale can take Gabriel together, but it’s unlikely Gabriel would have come for them alone.

“Ssssod off, Gabriel,” Crowley hisses, and senses rather than sees Aziraphale discreetly redirecting the foot traffic so the hapless humans on the pavement suddenly find themselves giving the three beings a wide berth, for reasons none of them quite understand.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, strained cordiality, and adds, even more strained, “Crowley.”

“What do you want, Gabriel? I warn you, we are not above defending ourselves against attack.”

“I’m not here to attack you,” Gabriel says, which they have to believe because he looks like he hates how true it is. He glances between them, and then jerks his head toward the shop. “Is there anywhere we can go to discuss this privately?”

Aziraphale looks like he’s going to refuse, and Crowley doesn’t blame him- he doesn’t want Gabriel in their sanctums any more than Aziraphale does. However, there is the matter of the humans to consider. If things _do_ turn nasty, they don’t need to be caught in the fallout.

He gives Aziraphale’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and gestures toward the shop, which pops open obligingly.

“Sorry,” Crowley murmurs to Aziraphale, as Gabriel goes in first. “The humans, you know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs back. “I don’t have to like it, though.”

“We’ll get rid of him quickly,” Crowley promises, and leads the way into the shop.

Aziraphale locks the door and pulls the blinds tight behind him, and Crowley shoves his hands into his pocket in a gesture of flippance he doesn’t feel. Gabriel might not be here to attack them, but he doesn’t trust him as far as he could throw him, if he were a human with all the muscle mass of a matchstick with a headcold and not a supernatural being in fact quite capable of flinging a grown man, or at least a grown man-shaped being, very far indeed.

“What do you _want_ , Gabe?” Crowley asks, tracking the Archangel’s restless pacing.

Gabriel shoots him a withering glare and then turns his attention to his suitcuffs. He looks nervous, no, _sheepish_ , like whatever he’s about to say he really _doesn’t_ want to.

“So, you may have noticed that Heaven has left the two of you alone since,” and here he hesitates before, “that little incident with the hellfire.”

“You mean that time you tried to murder one of your own for thinking it might be nice not to have a great bloody war where a lot of people got killed just to settle a score,” Crowley corrects.

Gabriel glares at him again. “Murder isn’t a very nice word,” he says. “I prefer… execution. The natural consequences of going against Heaven to consort with demons and interfere with the Great Plan.”

“There wasn’t actually any consorting,” Aziraphale says, and ignores Crowley’s softly murmured ‘yet’. “And there was only the one demon. But really, I don’t think you’ve come to argue about that. What are you _doing_ here, Gabriel?”

“Yes, well.” Gabriel adjusts his tie, back to sheepish. “In fact, it turns out that… well… your-execution-was-never-part-of-the-plan,” he mumbles rapidfire.

They stare. He clears his throat.

“In attempting to execute you I was going _against_ the plan for my own benefit and I have been told that I…” He sighs. “...that I owe you an apology. And-also-I’m-stuck-on-Earth-until-I-make-it-up-to-you,” he adds in a rush.

Angel and demon exchange astonished glances, and Crowley’s face splits into a delighted grin.

“Are you _telling me_ ,” he says, glee lacing his tone, “That the Almighty gave you a stern talking to and now you’re _grounded_ ? Ohhhh, I _really_ wish I could have witnessed that.”

Gabriel stares down Crowley until his grin fades, but Crowley keeps it up longer than natural just to spite him. Once his expression has settled, Gabriel goes on, “I’ve been told I have to help you plan your wedding.”

Crowley’s lingering grin vanishes. “You wanna run that by me again?”

“My _orders_ are to help you plan your wedding.”

A look of wonder passes over Aziraphale’s face. “Do you mean that… the Almighty has blessed our union?”

“Unfortunately,” Gabriel sighs.

Aziraphale goes through a whole range of expressions before settling on relieved elation, but Crowley skips every other reaction and demands, “Why?”

“We do _not_ question the Almighty,” Gabriel snaps.

“ _You_ might not. _I_ do. Practically known for it.”

“Crowley-” Aziraphale turns to him, and Crowley doesn’t have to ask to know what that look is over.

The thing is, while Aziraphale had eventually accepted the loss of heaven’s support, the idea of losing God’s love had been wearing away at him. He’d been quietly[7] fretting over it since Armageddon’t, and to hear that not only had he not been barred from God’s light but that their union was _blessed_ \- it must be like a weight being lifted from his shoulders, like flying the first time after being stuck on the ground for far too many years.

Crowley can understand. He knows firsthand what it is to be separated from God’s light; he’d never wanted it for his angel anyway.

Which is why he doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is “Who cares? Who is God to come nosing into our relationship? Who asked?” and instead lets Aziraphale take his hand and squeeze it.

“I know, angel,” he says, squeezing back, and then turns his attention back to Gabriel with a grin. “So, back to the part where you’re banned from heaven-”

“I don’t see what’s so _funny_ about it,” Gabriel snaps again.

“Oh, I could introduce you to about ten thousand Fallen angels who would be happy to explain the joke in _excruciating_ detail.”

“But we _won’t_ ,” Aziraphale says. “Probably. Really, though, it’s not so bad. It can't be that hard to plan a wedding, and it’s not like you’re being sent to hell, just stuck on earth, and only for a bit, which is far better than anyone else could have expected after going against God’s will, after all. You’ll be back in heaven before you know it.”

“Must be nice, being the favorite,” Crowley adds.

“You’re right!” Gabriel says, smiling a little brighter, or anyway showing a few more teeth. “It _is_ nice that I’ll soon be able to return to God’s light, rather than having been cast out for eternity instead.” He claps his hands together and rubs them, smile becoming a bit more genuine. “So. How do you two feel about short engagements?”

-/-

 

> [5]If Crowley were more prone to poetic declarations, he’d say something like, “Your kindness falls off of you in waves and fills up any room you walk into and turns into an endless series of whirlpools that no one in their right mind can avoid getting caught up in. It’s impossible to fight the whirlpools; better to lean into the current and let them carry you. Is it any wonder, then, that I fell in love with you, when everything about you is so _good_ and _kind_ and _beautiful_ and drew me in? It never even _occurred_ to me to fight the currents; of course it’s easy for me to assume that every human you meet wouldn’t stand a chance. Naturally I assume anyone who meets you is in love with you, and the fact that I’m the one you point that beauty at time and again never ceases to amaze me.”
> 
> But Crowley likes to think he’s cool,[6] and saying something like that wouldn’t be cool.
> 
> [6] He is, of course, very wrong.
> 
> [7]And not so quietly.

-/-

“Where are you staying while you’re on earth, Gabriel?” Aziraphale says, after nearly an hour of convincing him that they have no intention of just going to the nearest church and getting married tonight,[8] and yes they don’t intend for a long engagement, not after six thousand years of waiting,[9] but they are going to have a proper engagement period before the actual wedding.

“Staying?” Gabriel asks, politely puzzled.

“Well you can’t stay _here_ ,” Aziraphale says. “There’s no room.”

“And also we don’t want you here,” Crowley adds, just in case he gets any ideas about not taking up much space _really_.

“Why would I need to stay anywhere?” he asks. “I don’t need to eat or sleep.”

“You need shelter,” Aziraphale points out. “It gets very wet in London.”

“Oh, come off it, angel,” Crowley counters. “He doesn’t need anywhere, he says. Just throw him out and he can go hang out in St. James’ while we sleep.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale scolds, and considers, “What about the flat?”

“What flat? You mean _my_ flat? We can’t put him in my flat, it’s mine.”

“You have a flat? I thought you resided here?”

Crowley shrugs. “Didn’t see any reason to get rid of the old place just cause I moved in here. ‘Sides, I need somewhere to keep the plants that don’t make the cut.”

Gabriel looks around, taking in the various potted plants scattered amongst the books. “Plants?”

“Yeah, don’t think all of them have earned a place at the shop.” He shoots a glare at the plants in question. “And don’t think any of you can go slacking off just cause you’ve earned a place here! I can rescind the privilege at any moment!”

The plants tremble with terror. Crowley turns a sunny smile back on Gabriel. “All right, you can stay at the flat. Good place for rejects. Come on, Gabe, I’ll go get you installed now.”

And strides out without another word, leaving Gabriel to give Aziraphale an unreadable look. Aziraphale just shrugs, and makes a shooing motion that Gabriel, reluctantly, complies with, turning to follow Crowley out into the street.

-/-

 

> [8]For one thing, Aziraphale has no wish to get married while his betrothed plays hopscotch at the altar.
> 
> [9] “Six thousand _years_ ?” Gabriel had said. “But that would put you starting at the very _Beginning_.”
> 
> “Yes, well, _some_ of us started at the very beginning,” Crowley had replied. “ _Some_ of us needed a bit of time to get caught up,” and then looked very pointedly at Aziraphale.

-/-

They walk back to the flat. According to Crowley, Gabriel hasn’t earned a ride in the Bentley.

“You know I come down to Earth to jog every morning, right demon?” Gabriel says. “A short walk isn’t going to wear me out, even if my human body was susceptible to human weakness. In fact-“ He picks up his pace slightly, a little ahead of Crowley now. “I think a jog would really hit the spot right now.”

Crowley watches him jog ahead, not bothering to ask directions. He supposes it’s too much to have hoped that heaven _don’t_ know where his flat is; he’s been occupying it for a few hundred years now, after all.

He doesn’t bother catching up. Gabriel can wait for him, if he’s going to be so bloody-minded.

-/-

By the time Crowley reaches the flat, Gabriel is chatting with the lady downstairs, or more accurately, Gabriel is explaining that he knows Crowley and is waiting for him, no, he does _not_ want to come in for tea, thank you, please stop looking at him like that. [1o]

“I wouldn’t bother barking up that tree, Mrs. Bennet,” Crowley says as he joins them. She turns a sunny smile on him.

“Anthony,” she says, holding a hand out and letting Crowley press a delicate kiss to her knuckles. She reaches up to pat his cheek when he lets go with a playful wink. “You old serpent. You haven’t been to see me in ages.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bennet. I had some business to take care of and I couldn’t make it around.”

“Well it would serve you right if I’d gone and passed while you were away.”

Crowley gives her his most flirtatious grin. “Oh, Mrs. Bennet, I’m sure a youngster like you hasn’t got any reason to go worrying about anything like that.”

“Ooh, you… snake in the grass! Just like your grandfather, you know, he was a right flirt, that man.” She tries to look stern, and then raises her hand and rests a hand against his cheek. There’s something very sad in the way she looks up at him. “You do so look like him, you know.”

“I’ve been told,” he says. He doesn’t like that look in her eyes, so he switches topics by holding up his hand so that his ring flashes in the light. “You’ll never guess what happened while I’ve been away.”

“ _Oh_ , are you and your young man going to finally tie yourselves together, then?” She beams, and raises her free hand to cup his other cheek. “That’s wonderful! I _had_ so hoped that I would live to see you settled.”

“Mrs. Bennet-“ he begins, and then says nothing. Flirtatious comments about her youth might be fun for cheek, but he gets the feeling that such a remark will fall flat if he makes one now. Instead he lets her pull him down and press a kiss to his forehead. “You’ll come to the wedding, won’t you? I know Mr. Fell would want you there, too.”

“I’ll come if I can.” She releases him and he straightens, then glances at Gabriel. “And who is this young man?”

“This is Gabriel,” Crowley says, and glares pointedly until Gabriel takes her hand and kisses it as well, sending a blush screaming across her paper-thin cheeks. “He’s going to be borrowing my flat for a little while,” and adds, though he’s not entirely sure why, “I’ll tell him to look in on you while he’s here, and if you need anything just let him know.”

“I didn’t-” Gabriel begins, and then breaks off when Crowley stamps on his foot. He glares; Crowely glares back, and he sighs. “Of course. I’m always happy to be of service.”

Crowley bids her a good evening, and heads up the stairs to his flat, the joy from his day sapped from him. His limbs hang heavy at his side, largely forgotten, and he doesn’t even have it in him to taunt Gabriel anymore when the Archangel catches up to him.

“Who was that woman?” he asks, while Crowley lets them both into the flat. “One of your agents?”

“Don’t be stupid, she’s just a sweet old lady.” At Gabriel’s disbelieving look, he bristles. “She’s just my downstairs neighbor, all right? She knits me warm woolly jumpers because she knows I get cold easily and she invites me around for tea because she likes a bit of company and she thinks I’m my own grandson because she’s lived downstairs from me for sixty years and I can’t possibly be the same man, after all. She’s got nothing to do with heaven or hell or good or evil or anything. She’s just nice.”

“She’s going to die soon.”

“No, _really_ ? I hadn’t _noticed_.” He glowers, then grabs the plant mister and stalks over to his plants- might as well water them while he’s here- but he can’t find it in him to actually deliver any of his usual threats. “Look, you can stay at the flat while you’re here, but the bedroom is off-limits. And keep an eye on Mrs. Bennet.”

Gabriel looks like he’s planning to argue, but Crowley doesn’t give him the chance; he turns and stalks out without another word.

-/-

 

> [1o]Mrs. Bennet and her late husband moved into the downstairs flat as newlyweds some sixty years ago. Crowley has gotten rather attached to her in that time, even if she is convinced he’s his own grandson and keeps telling him wildly inaccurate stories about himself under the impression that he might like to know what he got up to back then.

-/-

Aziraphale is mending one of his books with Crowley gets home, but when Crowley comes into the backroom in a full dejected mope he abandons that and comes over to him.

“Crowley? Is everything all right, my dear?”

Crowley shrugs. “Have you been to see Mrs. Bennet this winter?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale takes his hand, guides him over to the couch. “Yes, a few times.” He settles down beside Crowley and brushes a hand over his hair. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley shrugs. “I think I might turn in for the night. I’ll see you in the morning, angel.”

Aziraphale nods and presses a kiss to his temple. “Good night, Crowley. I’ll see you in the morning.”

-/-

Crowley goes to bed feeling dejected and miserable, but he’s been on earth for six thousand years and is at this point quite used to the humans he gets attached to passing on eventually. It sucks, but by the time he wakes his mood has improved, helped by the fact that even with his eyes closed he can sense Aziraphale at his side, one hand draped loosely around his waist.

Crowley opens his eyes to find his angel leaning over him. He stretches out languorously, listening to every bone and joint pop as the stiffness of sleep leaves him, and then settles back down into the pillows with a content chirp.

“Have you been watching me sleep again? That’s creepy, you know.”

“You like creepy,” Aziraphale points out, which Crowley has to concede is a point. Aziraphale reaches out to smooth a thumb over the furrow in Crowley’s brow. “I’ve only been here about ten minutes. I thought you might be waking soon and I wanted to be here when you did.” He leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Crowley’s lips. “I like being the first thing you see when you wake up.”

Crowley hums at that and reaches up to cup Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale turns just enough to press a kiss to his palm. “Oh, angel,” he murmurs. “You’ll have me turning soft.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Aziraphale murmurs back, a private joke dancing in his eyes.

Crowley squints at him; he feels like he’s being made fun of, but when he doesn’t find the joke he resorts instead to distracting Aziraphale with a kiss. It seems like a much better use of both their times, after all.

“So what have got on the agenda for today?” he asks, eventually. As nice as it would be to just keep lazing in bed with Aziraphale, they have things to do. They have a _wedding_ to plan, and that alone makes him _giddy_.

“I thought we might head into Tadfield today,” Aziraphale says. “You haven’t seen the kids all winter, and we have to announce our engagement.”

“What about Gabe?”

“Now, my dear,” Aziraphale chides him. “You know he doesn’t like you calling him that.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like him telling me to shut my stupid mouth and die already when I’m wearing your face. He’ll live with it.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale looks like he doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so Crowley kisses him again before sitting up.

“I like your Tadfield idea. We can meet with Gabriel later, we should probably take the time to talk about what kind of wedding _we_ want anyway, before he rubs his fingers all over it.”

-/-

They breakfast in a tiny little Thai restaurant where the owner herself greets Aziraphale with a fondness that only seems achievable by every restaurant proprietor in London specifically for Aziraphale. She congratulates them on their engagement and when they leave, a little bit later in the morning than they’d meant to, they’re both feeling good and ready to see the kids again.

Crowley finds Aziraphale’s hand between them and holds it while they stroll to the Bentley.

And the Beelzebub steps out in front of them.

“Crowley,” she says, and Crowley finds himself pushed _behind_ Aziraphale before the buzz in her words has even died down. Her eyes slide to Aziraphale. “And the principality Aziraphale.”

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley says, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Stop shaking, Crowley, I’m not here to attack you.”

“What _are_ you here for, then?” Aziraphale asks, and there’s a steely bite to his tone that Crowley’s never heard before. He glances from angel and demon lord and does some quick math before resting a hand on Aziraphale’s back, barely noticeable, hopefully reassuring.

“News of your engagement has reached our ears in hell,” she says. She looks like she’d rather not. “Our lord Satan has sent me to…” She sighs. “...ensure that your wedding is as perfect as it is possible to achieve.”

Crowley stares. “Are you _joking_ ? Are you telling me that Sa- that _Satan himself_ has bl-- has cu-- you know what I mean- our union?”

“I am as surprizzzed as you are.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look. “Why though?”

Beelzebub bristles. “It is not _our_ place to question our lord’s decisions.”

“Have you even _met_ me?” [11]

Aziraphal, wringing his hands nervously and watching over Beelzebub’s shoulder, says, “I’m sure you’re very qualified to help with the wedding, of course, but there’s a bit of a problem you should be made aware of.”

“And what’sz that?”

“I got tired of waiting,” Gabriel says, coming to stop in front of them with a little bounce to his step. “So, let’s get down to it! We’ve got a wedding to plan, the sooner the better, right?”

Crowley sighs, and gestures at him. “That.”

-/-

 

> [11]Crowley will never get his answers, but the reader will likely be interested in hearing an explanation. In a nutshell, the Almighty went to Satan and said (paraphrasing) “Could you please tell that Crowley guy to stop fraternizing with my angel?” and Satan’s reply was (also paraphrasing) “Bugger you, he can do what he likes.” One has to use finesse with such situations, and the Almighty has rather a soft spot for these two and would like to see them officially married before yet another century goes by.

-/-


	2. Time Don't Mean A Thing When You're By My Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale run off to Tadfield while their respective superiors come to an agreement. Possibly they should have been involved in this process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's illegal for demons to sit properly.

-/-

“You know what?” Crowley says, while Gabriel and Beelzebub side-eye each other with mistrust. He takes hold of Aziraphale’s elbow. “I think. We’re just gonna let you two work this out between yourselves. We’ll be back this evening and you can tell us what you’ve decided.”

“And where do you think _you’re_ going?” Beelzebub demands.

“Tadfield,” Crowley says, giving a little bow out of habit. “Got to tell the kids the good news. See you this evening.”

And then he grabs Aziraphale and the two hurry off to the car, leaving their superiors standing on the pavement.

“You _know_ they can just catch up!” Aziraphale says, puffing a little at the exertion. They reach the Bentley at the same time, and Crowley grins over the roof at him.

“Sure. But I think they want to talk to us as little as we want to talk to them. Now come on, get in the car- let’s go, angel!”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, and slides into the seat, only just getting the door shut before Crowley peels out of his space and into traffic, narrowly missing a pedestrian as he does.

-/-

“Well then,” Aziraphale says, after a good ten minutes of silence while Crowley careens through London traffic in the direction of the M25 ( _I’m travelling at the speed of light, I wanna make a supersonic man out of you~_ croons the blaupunkt as they go).

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, then huffs and sinks lower in the driver’s seat.

“How do we get into these situations, angel?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale sighs. “I was looking forward to a simple wedding with our friends, not the headache those two are sure to create.”

Crowley nods, then frowns, a thought shaping his expression. “Now hang on,” he suddenly says. “Who says we have to let them plan the wedding at all?”

“Well… God, I suppose.”

Crowley clucks his tongue, but says nothing, instead turning his attention to glowering out the window. Aziraphale reaches over to rest a hand over his.

“I know you feel differently, Crowley, but I really am… so _relieved_ to know that- well… it’s just… I’ve been so _afraid_.”

“I know. I _know_ , okay?” He takes Aziraphale’s hand and brings it up to his lips briefly. “Look, I’m just saying. We can refuse. We can tell them to sod off. Gabriel being grounded isn’t our problem and Beelzebub wasn’t told to _plan_ the wedding, just make sure it’s perfect.”

“Easiest job in the world, if you ask me,” Aziraphale says, and when Crowley raises a questioning eyebrow at him, goes on with, “With you at my side, my love, perfection is already achieved. Everything else is just details.”

Crowley nearly crashes the car over that, and Aziraphale goes to staring out the windscreen, occasionally casting little sidelong glances at Crowley, who is staring straight ahead as he drives rather than respond.

After a long time (the song changes over twice) Aziraphale says, “I have a thought, dear,” and when Crowley hums for him to continue, “What if we take this as an opportunity to bridge the void between heaven and hell?”

Crowley gives him an incredulous look. “You what?”

“Just think about it a moment. We have at our fingertips a magnificent chance to force our respective superiors, two of the most powerful people in heaven and hell, to cooperate. Perhaps, with the right nudging, they can realize that they aren’t so different and- perhaps we can sow the seeds of peace between our respective people.”

This gets him a glare. “You want to turn our wedding- what should be a joyous occasion, the binding of our two souls into one, the open and permanent declaration of our love- into…. Into _peace talks_?”

“No! No, of _course_ not, never.” He finds Crowley’s hand between them again. “I just… think it would be a good opportunity and I wouldn’t like to waste it. It’s going to happen either way- I don’t think they’ll be so easy to shake the second time. So we might as well get something out of it.”

Crowley makes a noise of reluctant concession at that, and then his brow furrows.

“Crowley?”

His frown vanishes, and he shrugs. “It’s nothing. Something I almost remembered- it’s gone now.”

“So do you want to try my suggestion, then?”

Crowley heaves a great sigh, and then shrugs. “All right. Why not? You’re right, we’re not getting out of this easily either way. Might as well.”

-/-

What Crowley is trying to remember is: once upon a time in heaven, before the Fall, Gabriel and the angel who would later become Beelzebub were friends.

Oh, how they loved each other! They were as close as two angels could be, they adored one another, they knew each other with a deep sort of closeness that neither have felt for anyone since. As far as Gabriel was concerned, the angel who would become Beelzebub was the greatest of God’s creations, the greatest reflection of the Almighty’s skill, and as far as his friend was concerned, the same was true of him.

And then Lucifer happened. And for the first time, the two friends found themselves on opposite sides of an equation.

You see, when Lucifer started asking questions about why they should serve the Almighty, what had the Almighty done to deserve it, Gabriel doubled down on his already-present insistence on God’s will as the correct choice. For Gabriel, his morality was a compass that pointed at all times to “divine right” and anything that wavered from this was Wrong.

For the angel who would become Beelzebub, the response was to stop and say, “Yes. Why?”

I’m sure you can imagine the strain this put on their friendship. Gabriel couldn’t understand why his friend would ever question the Almighty, when the Almighty was always _right_ \- it was right there in the name, for heaven’s sake! Meanwhile, his friend wondered how he could be so blind, how he could be such a fool as to never question his orders, regardless of what they were.

It was Gabriel who personally cast out the angel who would become Beelzebub, during the rebellion. He’s never really gotten over it. It’s not something one _gets_ over, really.

As for Beezlebub- well- there’s a lot about the Fall that she’s never gotten over. Her dearest friend choosing divine will over her barely qualifies for the list at all.

Or, so she’d say. But there is a part of her that still misses him.

-/-

In London, after the pair have run off, Gabriel shoves his hands into his suit pockets and says, “So. Why are you here?”

“I’ve been given orders to ensure their wedding goes off without a hitch.”

“Really?”

She nods, not looking at him. She looks bored, like she wants to be as involved in this about as much as she wants to do anything she does, which is never at all. “I thought we’d washed our hands of those two after that holy water incident.”

“Tell me about it.” He glances around, and lowers his voice. “Did your people ever… you know, figure out what that was? I mean… what _was_ that?”

“No idea. Demons can’t Rise, that’s the whole point, and Aziraphale hasn’t Fallen, I would know if he had. Whatever they are, they aren’t of _uzz_ anymore.”

“Their own side,” Gabriel murmurs, and, “They’re very… _human_ , aren’t they?”

“They’ve gone native,” she agrees. “And now they’re getting married.”

"And now they're getting married," he repeats. “And God has blessed their union.”

“Satan as well.”

She sighs. She _really_ doesn’t want to be here.

-/-

Shortly after the averted Armageddon, Adam called Crowley and Aziraphale up and invited them to come visit him soon. They had agreed, and ever since they have made a point to drop by every few weeks. Humans, they are both acutely aware, grow and live and die very quickly, and it wouldn’t be a good idea to drop out of their lives for a couple of decades or the odd century like they so often have with each other, not if they want to find them still there when they go back.

They’ve become a bit of a fixture in the town since then; Mr. Crowley, with his sleek black Bentley and his steampunk shades, and Mr. Fell, with his comfortably worn jacket and his angelic smile. Mr. Fell is exactly the sort of man that RP Tyler wishes everyone in Tadfield were- polite, affable, respectable, and helpful-, and Mr. Crowley has never [1] been anything but polite to him- he’s even written a letter to the paper about them, about what a fine example they are of how the younger set [2] should treat their elders, and that the children of Tadfield should look to them as a guide, though he’s not sure he approves of how tight Mr. Crowley’s trousers are.

They arrive at Jasmine Cottage to find Anathema sitting in her garden with a book and Newt out, and they haven’t been there more than five minutes- just long enough for Anathema to start laying out a plate of biscuits far too large for just the three of them- before the Them arrive. Anathema calls them entry as soon as there’s a knock and the four children pour in, all calling their greetings at once.

They go to Crowley first- they haven’t seen him all winter, but Aziraphale has visited a few times- and he scoops Adam into a hug and spins him around before grabbing Brian and Pepper and knocking their heads together (affectionately, of course) and ruffling Wensleydale’s hair until he complains loudly.

Crowley has always been better with kids than Aziraphale, and now Aziraphale takes a seat and helps himself to a biscuit, watching fondly while Crowley lines the four Them up so he can get a good look at them. After a moment he frowns theatrically.

“All of you have grown far too much since the last time I saw you,” he says, as sternly as he can manage despite the grin threatening to break out.

Adam just gives him a prim look and moves over to grab the plate of biscuits. “It’s not our fault you slept all winter. What’d you even want to go doing that for, anyway?”

“Too cold to be awake,” Crowley shrugs, grabbing a pair of biscuits before the Them can properly ravage the rest of the offered supply.

“But you would have missed the snow,” Brian points out. “And Christmas.”

“Don’t get much snow in London,” Crowley counters. “Also, noooot really one for celebrating Christmas, me.” He considers this for a moment, and, “Now, _Antichristmas_ , now that’s one I should probably be looking into. I mean, if Christians get Christmas because of the whole _Jesus_ thing, then I imagine for _Satanists_ -” He grins. “What’d’you think, Adam, want to have your birthday turned into a religious holiday for a bunch of Satanists?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I would prefer not to,” Adam says. “When it’s my birthday, I want to be the center of attention, not everyone else.”

“That’s fair.”

“Did you sleep all winter ‘cause you’re a snake?” Wensley asks, and Crowley gives him a long, unreadable look.

“Where did you get that idea from?”

“Well, you have snake eyes,” he points out, “and a snake tattoo, and sometimes you hiss, and Mr. Aziraphale calls you a serpent sometimes, so I think maybe you must be a snake, and if you’re a snake, that would mean you were cold blooded, and that would be why you’d want to sleep all winter.”

“Don’t you think I’ve got too many limbs for being a snake?” Crowley points out, waggling his arms to drive home the idea. “Not to mention vertebrae, human spines haven’t got nearly enough vertebrae. Only got thirty-three, you know, whereas a snake, oh, vertebrae city, your average snake.”

“Well you are a demon,” Pepper reminds him, very sensibly. “That probably helps matters.” [3]

“Mmmyep, all right, fair enough. I was hibernating, you’ve caught me out.” He grins cheekily at them, and passes over one of the biscuits he swiped to Aziraphale, who has already finished his own.

Their fingers brush, just for a moment, sending metaphorical and possibly literal electricity crackling through them. The Them don’t really pay attention [4] but Adam is paying enough to catch the glint of light that bounces off of their rings as their hands near each other. He looks to Aziraphale for an answer, for confirmation, and Aziraphale winks at him and he nods, and Aziraphale thinks that maybe he understands.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them, of course, it’s explicitly the reason for their visit after all. But Newt isn’t here, and he wants to tell the whole family at once.

-/-

 

> [1] As far as he knows.
> 
> [2] He’d hesitated to call them younger; he’s sure they _are_ younger than him, but every time he thinks it he feels he might be wrong. Both of them possess a sort of vague youthfulness about them that counters any attempts to read them as older, but they also sometimes seem to have the depth of ages within them.
> 
> [3] It’s true that Adam papered over the memories of the various humans present for Armageddon’t. It’s also true that he didn’t do a very good job of it.
> 
> [4] He knows because if they were, they’d be made fun of.

-/-

Newt arrives within the hour, when the Them are playing in the garden while Anathema fills Crowley in on anything he’s missed over the winter, and Aziraphale since his last visit. He makes some teasing remark about Anathema not letting them know they had visitors; she reminds him that he doesn’t have a working cell phone and then kisses his cheek before resuming her seat and her conversation.

The children pay this no attention, either, but no sooner have the niceties of greeting passed than Adam has ceased their game and they’re watching the adults expectantly.

“Newt’s here,” Adam says. “So you can tell us what you came to tell us now.”

“What?” Newt glances between them. “What about me being here now?”

“They came here to tell us something,” Adam says. “But they didn’t want to until we were all here. You can tell us now.”

Crowley mutters something far too low and unintelligible for human ears- Adam, no doubt, hears it perfectly, but continues to give them the serene look he’d spoken with, while the others look to them expectantly. Aziraphale looks to Crowley for relief, for reassurance, and Crowley finds his hand between them, squeezes gently.

“We’re getting married,” Aziraphale says, heart soaring at just the mention of the fact. _We are getting married_ , he repeats in his mind, rolling the words, the very idea, around and around inside of him. Beside him, the love that is a constant in Crowley surges and swells and pours off of him; he laces their fingers together properly and turns to their little family, expecting congratulations, excitement, shared adulation-

-they look confused, mostly.

“Sorry?” Newt says. “I thought you were already married?”

“No?”

“You said you’d been together for six thousand years,” Pepper reminds them. “That’s a long time to be together without getting married.”

“We haven’t,” Crowley says. “We’ve _known_ each other six thousand years. We’ve been together- you know, _together_ \- for about eight months.”

“You’ve known each other six thousand years and only just now started dating?” Wensleydale asks, and Brian adds, “How do you spend six thousand years together without dating or getting married?”

“Not for a lack of trying,” Crowley says, and gives Aziraphale a look so pointed it could line a spike pit.

“I’m sensing a story there,” Anathema says. “But congratulations! I guess after six thousand years there’s not much reason to worry about moving too fast,” which gets a guffaw out of Crowley, “I’m really happy for you.”

“Can we plan your wedding?” Adam asks, now that the formalities of telling them have been dealt with. This gets another guffaw out of Crowley.

“Oh I _wish_ you could,” he says. “Damned sight better than the wedding planners we’re _stuck_ with.”

This raises a few eyebrows, so they fill them all in on a short version of events, leaving out any mention of the hellfire and holy water incidents. It’s something they don’t like to talk about, even with each other; with the rest of the family, it’s right out.

“Perhaps the reception?” Aziraphale suggests. “I think you would do quite well at that.”

Their eyes light up, and Aziraphale has a moment where he wonders if perhaps asking four twelve-year-olds to plan their wedding reception isn’t really the best idea, in fact. And then Crowley belts out a laugh- a real laugh, not a cynical guffaw- and squeezes his hand again and Aziraphale thinks, no, this is in fact the best idea he’s ever had.

Apart from marrying Crowley in the first place, of course.

And talking to him on the garden wall all those years ago…

-/-

While Crowley and Aziraphale visit with their small family, let us draw the mind’s eye back to London, where Gabriel and Beelzebub have found themselves in St. James’, watching the ducks but not- and this is important to note- _not_ feeding them.

They have been talking in circles for a while, and now they are silent.

“Do ducks have ears?” Beelzebub asks, breaking the sullen silence hanging over them.

Gabriel gives her an incredulous look. “What?”

“Ducks. Do they have ears?”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel leans forward a little, eyeing the ducks a little more closely. “They must?”

“Where, though?”

“Well, I guess they’re… internal?”

“Internal.”

“Ears can be internal. Just look at… corn. Corn has ears, right? Famous for it.”

“Well, yeah but- wait…” She considers this, trying to remember what part of corn constitutes it being called an ear. “I _think_ it’s hyperbole?”

“No, I’m sure that’s what they have. Ears. On the inside.”

“That doesn’t sound right. Why put them on the inside?”

“To hear… insects? That might eat them.”

“I thought corn w _an_ ted to be eaten.”

“Not by insects.” He frowns. That doesn’t sound right. “I think corn only wants to be eaten by humans?”

“Humans can’t digezt corn.”

“Can’t they? I thought it was some kind of important crop for them.”

“N _ah_ , they can’t digezzt it, it comezz out the zzame way it goezz in.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Hazzztur told me.”

“How does he know?”

“I didn’t azzzk.”

Gabriel turns his attention from the ducks he’s been squinting at, seeking ears, and looks Beelzebub over. She’s sunk down on the bench until she’s practically horizontal.

“Are you okay? You’re starting to buzz.”

“Too much time topzzzzide. I’m out of practi- _ce_.” She twitches, trying to get the buzzing under control. It’s been ages since she’s spent this long fully corporeal. It’s harder to maintain than she remembers, but then, she used to come up to earth all the time back in the old days.

“Why don’t you go back down, then?”

“Can’t. I have orderz. I have to make szure Azziraphale and the traitor’z wedding is perfect.”

“Well, no worries there,” Gabriel says, beaming. “I’m on the job now.”

“And you wonder why I’m still up here.” She huffs, and digs her shoulders into the back of the bench and, somehow, manages to slouch even more. No one sulks quite like a demon, and Beelzebub is very good at being a demon. “You could never plan a good wedding for a demon, and whatever elsze Crowley is he is sztill also a demon.”

“I thought there was no such thing as loyalty between demons.”

“There’z not. But there is such a thing as doing what you’re told so you don’t get demoted.” She scowls, a truly impressive thing that shoos away several ducks who have been edging closer in hopes of being fed. “I’ve been princze of hell since the Fall, there are too many demonz who I would not be happy to find myself ranked below.”

Gabriel folds his arms at that and looks away, something uncomfortable prickling over him that he manages to shunt aside and pack away neatly into a part of his brain he doesn’t use. [5] He straightens a bit.

“Am I supposed to feel bad for you? You chose to throw your lot in with traitors.”

Her lip curls. “I imagine there are plenty of angelzz who would be happy to find the Archangel Gabriel demoted beneee _ath_ them. Demons aren’t much different than angels when it comes down to it. We’re just a lot more open about it.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and then clamps it shut. They are straying perilously close to a topic they have both carefully avoided in six millennia plus all of the time before as well. [6] Not that they have many opportunities to need to avoid it; most of their interactions have been brief, official moments coordinating minor disputes. The day at the airfield was the most conversation they’ve had in eons. But there’s always been a tacit understanding between them that they Do Not Discuss The Fall.

“Do you know anything about weddings?” he asks, instead.

“Nah. Demons love weddings, but we don’t get to attend them much.”

“The church thing?” he asks, and then, “Wait, demons love weddings?”

“Yeah. Great chance to do evil.”

“Weddings are an expression of _good_. The binding of two souls, the spreading of goodwill, the reflection of God’s divine love in the only way humans are capable-”

Beelzebub snorts. “Shotgun weddings, child brides, forcibly arranged marriages, heteronormativity, not to mention all the stewing ill feelings between the guests towards each other or the couple, and then there’s the entirety of wedding culture to consider.” She gives him a nasty smile. “Weddings are ours. Just because your people tried to paint your name on it doesn’t change that.”

“You mean, just because your people _corrupted_ their natural beauty-”

She buzzes irritably at that, and snaps, “So how are we szupposzed to plan a wedding if neither of uzz knowzzzz wh _at_ a wedding ent _ail_ zz?”

“Well _I_ don’t know. How hard could it be? Humans do it all the time.”

“Yeah but they have _context_ , you stupid-” She buzzes again, and folds her arms, glaring off in the opposite direction. “They know what they’re doing.”

“We’ll- look it up, then. Humans have- reference materials? We’ll use the internet.” He sits up a little harder, straightens his tie. Looks smug. “I’m sure there’ll be something we can use.”

She glares at him sidelong. “You know how to use the internet?”

“Of course! Well, I mean, I’m sure I could figure it out quickly. I can use a _computer_. Heard that’s more than your lot manage.”

She ignores the potshot. “Where are we going to get access to a computer? Don’t have them down below, you can’t go above.”

“Crowley has one in his flat. We’ll use it-” He hops to his feet, charged now that they have a plan, and holds out a hand. “Come on, we can go figure it out now. It’s better than sulking on a park bench.”

She glares at his hand, then shoves hers pointedly into her pockets and stands, slouching off through the park without waiting to see if he’ll follow her. He does, of course, falling into step beside her.

-/-

 

> [5] The author has a list of possible jokes here, in the vein of ‘so most of it’, or, ‘it’s a big part’, or, ‘plenty of room there’, or something else of the kind. Feel free to choose your own joke; the punchline is always Gabriel.
> 
> [6] Time is a human invention and therefore it is impossible to count how much of it happened before the humans got around to inventing it.

-/-

“I can never remember, is the internet yours or ours?” Gabriel asks, as they arrive at Crowley’s building.

“No idea,” Beelzebub says. “It’s complicated and frustrating to use, and lends an audience to dangerous people who would otherwise not have one, not to mention the terrible mental health strain from social media, but it also allows people to connect and give aid and spread joy and do good in ways that they never would have been able to otherwise. Could go either way.”

“Hmm.” Gabriel considers this. “Aziraphale sent in a few reports about his experiments with the internet a few years ago. If I recall, he said something on… Twitter?... that got him, oh, what was it he said? ‘More receipts than Ea-nasir’? He hasn’t tried since then, at least as far as I know.”

“Crowley loves the internet,” Beelzebub sighs. “Only demon who does, actually. We used to have to get him down about once a week to fix the one computer we’ve got down in hell. [7] It hasn’t worked since we… severed ties. Or tried to.” She adds, “He’s always taking credit for these things called… memes? But he tried to explain that once and I just got more confused.” [8]

Anything more they might have said about memes is interrupted then by Mrs. Bennet opening her door and then brightening when she sees Gabriel.

“Mr. Gabriel!” she says delightedly. “What a joy it is to see you. And your friend?”

“We’re not friends,” he says hurriedly. “This is- uh-”

“Bells,” Beelzebub says quickly.

“Right- um-” He hesitates, and then grins. “Actually, Mrs. Bennet, maybe you can help us? We’re supposed to be planning, ah, Anthony’s wedding, and we’re not really sure where to even start. Do you have any advice?”

He punctuates this with his most angelic, golden-boy-next-door grin. Beelzebub curls her lip at it, but Mrs. Bennet very visibly melts, and fans herself slightly.

“Oh,” she says. “Well. Yes, actually, I think I can help. I have some books leftover from when our Grace got married- I suppose bridal books won’t be _much_ good but it’ll at least give you a starting point- come in, come in. Why don’t I make you both some tea, and you can take a look?”

“I don’t drink tea,” Gabriel protests, but Beelzebub grabs his elbow and drags him along with her into Mrs. Bennet’s flat.

“I do,” she says, and glares at him, and lets go. She hisses, “If you’re going to start this you’re going to follow through.”

“I do not sully the temple of my celestial body,” he hisses back, adjusting his sleeve where she’d grabbed him. “I can ask questions without doing that.”

“Don’t mind him,” Beelzebub says, when Mrs. Bennet gives them a confused look. “He’s American.”

-/-

 

> [7] Crowley maintains that the single best part of getting fired (so to speak) from hell is that he no longer has to go down every week and ask whether Dagon has tried turning it off and turning it on again.
> 
> [8] Imagine that one memeception post, but you don’t even know what memes are, let alone understand the memes themselves.

-/-

Aziraphale and Crowley stay in Tadfield until late in the evening, joining Newt and Anathema for dinner and a nice glass of wine after the Them have all gone home. It is therefore nearly midnight when they finally take their leave of their friends and head back to London.

“That was a lovely visit,” Aziraphale says, settling into his seat and turning a fond look to his demon. “And it’s been so long since we had human friends, and even longer since you and I had mutual friends.”

“That we were aware of,” Crowley says with a grin, and adds, “We should probably call up Shadwell and Madame Tracy and let them know.”

“Yes, though there’s no reason to drive all the way to the South Downs to tell them. Although-”

Crowley sighs. He knows where this is going. “Unfortunately I don’t think Gabriel will let us get away with leaving him behind a second time.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. We’ll have to actually discuss our wedding plans with him eventually.”

“Not tonight, though,” Crowley insists, and then, addressing his carphone, “Call holy dickhead.”

“Calling holy dickhead,” comes the smooth voice.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds, his heart not even pretending to be in it.

Crowley just gives him a sunny grin, and then, when Gabriel answers with a confused, ‘Hello?’, lets out a chipper, “Hiya, Gabe!”

“Crowley,” Gabriel sighs. “How did you get this number?”

“Not important. So, listen. Aziraphale and I have just had a _lovely_ day socializing with people we actually like, and it’s late, so we’re going to go home and we’ll meet up with you guys in the morning. Bright and early, ten o’clock sharp.”

“Ten o’clock is early?”

“You’re right, why waste a good lie-in? Twelve it is, then.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale chides, and he sighs.

“All right, all right, fine, we’ll meet at St. James’ at eight o’clock. _But not sooner!_ Oh, and pass all that on to Beelzebub but, like, pepper in some sirs or my lords or something.”

He hangs up before Gabriel can reply, and Aziraphale gives him an exasperated look.

“I _do_ wish you wouldn’t antagonize him so much.”

“Oh, come off it, angel. He tried to murder you, I’m allowed to be a little antagonistic. His feelings can take the hit.”

“Perhaps, but _you_ cannot, if you provoke him to the point of snapping. He is still an _Archangel_ , Crowley, he has power far beyond what either you are capable of defending against or I am capable of protecting you from.”

“Angel…” He eyes Aziraphale incredulously, and then turns his attention back to the road, shifting a little. “...I guess if you put it that way…”

Aziraphale reaches over and takes his free hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to each finger. “My dearest, I only worry for your safety. We are together, and we have the blessing of our… respective lords… but we are not one hundred percent in the clear. Please, please try not to provoke Gabriel. Do not test him to destruction.”

Crowley gives him a sharp look at that, and then brings their joined hands over so that he can press a reciprocating kiss to Aziraphale’s thumb. “All right. I’ll back off. But-” He glares. “-not entirely. His temper can stand a little bit of ribbing. It’ll be good for him, I bet.”

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re the fully corporeal thing, the premise this fic operates under is that angels and demons in their respective territories do the body equivalent of taking off their jacket and shoes and loosening their tie while retaining the rest of the suit while at home, and only go the full kit when they're on earth. Corporations aren't as necessary away from earth, but they're convenient for a lot of reasons, and it's a lot of trouble to remove them completely. But maintaining full corporation for long periods of time is taxing if you don't have practice; Beelzebub is currently doing the equivalent of remembering how to ride a bicycle after several years without needing to.


	3. I've Been With You Such a Long Time, You're My Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and Beelzebub discover pornography, and the planning stage begins and then immediately falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a general sense, I tend to write a blend of book and show canon, going for whichever element I prefer regardless of which canon it came from. Crowley's flat is something that I have unusually strong opinions about; I have very explicitly overwritten the concrete dungeon-esque flat from the show with the stark, modern white interior of book Crowley, for reasons that I hope should be obvious as soon as it comes up.

-/-

Gabriel tells Beelzebub about his call with Crowley, including the part about peppering in some sirs and lords rather than, well, actually doing so. Beelzebub rolls her eyes.

There’s something off about that, actually. She files it away for consideration later, and says, “We’ve got a checklist now.”

Gabriel nods and brandishes said list, written on a bit of lavender stationary provided by Mrs. Bennet. It’s long, written on both sides in nearly-illegible calligraphy, with notes scribbled in the margins in a much more readable scrawl. There’s also a greasy smudge on one corner, which Gabriel thinks was probably done on purpose. After all, demons taint everything they touch- even something as pure as an angel, judging by Aziraphale’s… corruption.

“We should go over this methodically,” he says, leading her up to the flat. “We can check on the Internet for more information.”

She takes the list and looks it over while he unlocks the door, and then follows him inside with a tone of disgust.

“This is Crowley’s flat?”

“Yep. Ever been here?”

“Nah. Never saw a need to.” She looks around, and her lip curls at how stark the place is. Barren. Clean white, modern, minimalist- it’s a bit like being back in heaven. Her eyes land on the plants. They’re verdant and beautiful, neither heavenly nor hellish, but they are also dripping with fear, and that, at least, meets her approval.

“The computer’s back here, in the office,” Gabriel says, ignoring her small exploration of the flat.

She follows, and pauses at the door, staring down at a stain just beyond the threshold. Going by what Hastur has told her- many, many times, recounting the moment of Ligur’s destruction in tones of both anger and loathing and, when they were all drunk enough, despair- it doesn’t take much to guess that this is what remains of Ligur, if ‘remains’ is the right word for… this.

Gabriel pauses in figuring out how to turn the computer on, [1] and glances at the stain that holds her attention.

“Yikes,” he says, which Beelzebub thinks is a bit of an understatement. “Who did that used to be?”

Callous. Uncaring. _Angelic_. “Duke Ligur,” she says, and steps over the stain without a second glance. “The reason we decided on holy water for his execution.”

“Oh. I wondered about that.” He turns his attention back to the computer, finally figures out how to turn it on, and then takes a seat in the desk chair, which promptly sinks down on its hydraulics. Once he’s restored it to a comfortable height, he turns his attention to figuring out how to log in. Beelzebub comes to lean over his shoulder.

“What are you doing now?”

“Trying figure out the password.” He pulls up the hint; it just says ‘Aziraphale’, no context. He tries that first, unsurprised when it doesn’t work.

“Try turning the e to a three and put a one at the end,” she suggests, since that’s what he did for their password down below. [2]

He does so, to no avail, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a huff. “I’ll have to call him, won’t I?”

“I’ll take this one,” and reaches out with her awareness for Crowley’s presence. He’s in that car of his, and it’s the matter of but a moment to settle into the radio waves and take them over. “Crowley,” she says, and then sticks her tongue out. Talking through Mercury always leaves a weird taste in her mouth.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley sighs on the other end, and a muffled murmur from nearby reaches her. “What can we do for you?”

We- of course, the angel is with him. She curls her lip at the realization- how often has the angel sat there at his side while he discussed hellish business? How much has he known about the goings on of hell over the years?

Questions for later.

“We need the password for your computer.”

“Why?”

“Becauzzze we have need of it, now tell usz the passzword!”

“It’s four thousand, one word, and a number four at the end.” She hears, then, barely audible, the angel murmur something, and Crowley giving a flustered, ‘Shut up!’ In response. She disconnects, lest she find herself listening to one side of a disgustingly soft conversation.

“Four thouzzzand, one word, number four at the end,” she says, and sighs. She resists the urge to mirror his exasperated motion and watches him key in the password.

“I didn’t expect weddings to be so complicated,” Gabriel says, while he tries to figure out where anything on Crowley’s computer actually is. “What’s so complicated about saying you’re married and then copulating in front of an audience?”

Beelzebub gives him an incredulous look. “Don’t get to many weddings, do you?”

“Well, no, not really. Why?”

“Because it has been a very long time since weddings involved copulation with an audience.”

“My services don’t tend to be necessary at weddings.” He waves the correction away as immaterial. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s still a thing they do. You saw the pictures from Mrs. Bennet’s… uh, Grace’s?… wedding.”

Beelzebub’s look grows, if possible, even more incredulous. “Kissing,” she says. “What they were doing was _kissing_. Not copulating.”

“Same thing,” he shrugs. “It’s all bodies invading other bodies. What’s the difference?”

For just a moment, the world stills, and then a smirk climbs up Beelzebub’s face, the nasty sort of smile that generally tells her subordinates that someone is about to be filled with regrets.

“I could show you,” she offers, and before he can protest, gives a wave of her hand that causes the computer to miraculously stop obfuscating Gabriel’s attempts to use it and instead pull up a website that- well, we’ll just say that it makes the difference visually apparent.

Archangel and demon prince, unbeknownst to either, each tilt their heads to one side as they watch.

“Ah,” Gabriel says. “Pornography.”

-/-

 

> [1] It has one button and one button only, so you’d think the process would be easy to figure out, but Crowley _does_ love his complicated and unusable machines.
> 
> [2] H3ll1

-/-

They call Madame Tracy (she can pass the news on to Shadwell) after they get home. Fortunately they don’t have to explain that they aren’t already married, since her little body-sharing stint left her well aware of this fact. It also left her well aware of how long Aziraphale, at least, has been pining, which is why he spends an unfortunate several minutes on the receiving end of comments to the effect of, “Well, it’s about _time_ , dear,” followed by her passing the news on to Shadwell over her shoulder and his responding, “Ha! Knew it!”, which descends into barely inaudible Shadwellian mutterings, of which little can be made out apart from ‘southern pansy’ and ‘flash southern bastard’ and ‘always thought those two’d get on if they met’, because he hasn’t quite grasped the fact that he didn’t introduce them.

While Aziraphale carries on this conversation, Crowley takes out his mobile and checks something, then bursts out laughing. At Aziraphale’s questioning look, he waves his hand dismissively, then flings himself down onto the sofa and carries on chuckling.

“I’ll let you go, Madame,” Aziraphale says. “My _fiance_ -“ And still, the word leaves him feeling giddy, “-seems to require my attention.”

“You go on, then, love,” she assures him, and once he hangs up he comes over to the sofa, pleased when Crowley holds his arms out in invitation. He sinks gratefully into the embrace, only taking a moment to adjust themselves so that they’re both lying comfortably, Aziraphale’s head resting over the heart Crowley doesn’t really _need_ but is so soothing to listen to, [3] while Crowley runs a gentle hand through his hair.

“What is so funny then?” he asks, once they’re both comfortable.

“You know how I can access my computer’s browsing history from my mobile?”

“Goodness, can you?”

“Yeah, it’s dead useful sometimes. Like, for instance, now, when Gabriel and Beelzebub are using my computer.”

He doesn’t explain any more than that, merely holds up the phone with the insinuating browser history on it, and the video in question. Aziraphale watches for a moment, head tilted just a little, and hums disdainfully.

“They’re not very good, are they?”

Crowley barks out a laugh at that. “Oh, you say? You’re an expert, are you?”

Aziraphale hmms at that, and turns so that he’s lying flush on top of Crowley, chin resting against his sternum, and gives him his most angelic smile.

“My dear,” he says, “I have been in the book trade business for a _very long time_ . I am _well aware_ of what constitutes good and bad erotica.”

“You sell _pornography_ here?”

“Of course not! I sell _art_ , erotic writing, far more beautiful and fulfilling than mere _pornography_.” [4]

“A dirty book’s a dirty book, angel.” Crowley tightens his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and kisses his forehead, which, as far down his chest as Aziraphale is, would be difficult to reach for anyone with the correct number of vertebrae. “So… got any ideas to share?”

“We-ell… perhaps a _few_ …”

Crowley smiles like a snake.

-/-

 

> [3] He even remembered to put it on the correct side this time.
> 
> [4] For a given value of the word sell, of course.

-/-

Crowley has always been very _good_ at inspiring Lust, especially since the invention of very tight trousers. [5] It comes with the territory: he’s a demon, and his job is to tempt humans into committing various sins, and Lust is one of the big ones.

Feeling it, on the other hand, well, that had taken rather a longer time. He’s spent six thousand years inspiring humans to lustful thoughts, [6] but he never really got around to having a sexuality of his own until Aziraphale happened to him very recently.At which point he figured out what all of the fuss was about and decided he quite understands now.

There are other things they like doing more. Sex is a lot of trouble that neither of them feel compelled to put the effort in for very often. But a little consorting doesn’t go amiss, after all, and they have plenty of time for all sorts of earthly pleasures now.

(In case the reader is wondering about Aziraphale’s sexual history, it is best put by saying that quite a lot of poets and writers have found themselves increasingly frustrated by their utter failure to woo this angelic muse they’d managed to find, only to be smacked rather unceremoniously by understanding the moment Crowley slithered into view. That’s right, Aziraphale has _always_ been oblivious to love when it’s pointed at him, not just when it came from the incredibly obvious and unsubtle demon currently making up for lost time on the sofa with him.)

-/-

 

> [5] There was a much longer paragraph here, waxing poetic for several lines on the particularly Lust-inspiring nature of such things as Crowley- a specific iteration of Crowley, that is- in very tight trousers, but the narrator has rebelled against the author and removed it. You’re welcome.
> 
> [6] Aziraphale may have been immortalized (ha!) in countless authors’ and poets’ words over the millennia, but Crowley has found his way into all sorts of visual art all throughout the centuries. 

-/-

Crowley hums sleepily from his place sprawled on top of Aziraphale, basking in the radiant warmth that always rolls off of his angel when he’s this happy. From where he’s standing- lying, whatever- Aziraphale is a wonderfully hot rock, and the warmest of sunbeams, and he is a happy serpent.

He yawns wide- and Crowley is very good at yawning very wide indeed- and nuzzles into Aziraphale’s neck. What a lovely neck it is! He nips oh-so-gently at the swell of his chin, and slithers up more so that he can follow the path along the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, coming to rest eye to eye. He nuzzles his face against Aziraphale’s, and is startled when Aziraphale meets him halfway with a kiss.

“Enjoying yourself, my dear?”

“Yes, very much,” he says, refusing to take the bait. “You smell nice.”

“And how do I smell?”

“Like me,” he says, and dips his head to suck a mark into Aziraphale’s throat. “Like _mine_.”

“I am yours, my dear.” Aziraphale’s hand comes up to tangle in his hair, carding through it with his own gentle possessiveness. Crowley has never checked, but deeo down suspects that he smells like Aziraphale’s, and deeper down he suspects this is by design.

“M’yours,” Crowley mumbles back, getting bored of marking Aziraphale and tucking his face into the angel’s neck instead. He’s thinking vaguely of sleeping, cosy in this warm space they exist in, but he knows Aziraphale will want to get up soon to go read, and he doesn’t want to miss a moment before he does.

“You are, dearest. Ever mine, and I yours, forever.”

-/-

Gabriel and Beelzebub are waiting for them at St. James’ the next morning, eight o’clock sharp. Beelzebub is slouching on a bench; as they approach, Gabriel jogs up to join them.

“Good morning!” He says brightly, and it would just figure he’s a morning person.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” Aziraphale, more manners than Crowley has ever had. “And you as well, Lord Beelzebub.”

The honorific gets a raised eyebrow but no comment as Beelzebub pushes to her feet and stalks over to them, hands shoved deep into her pockets.

“I suppoze we should get this over with, then. How do you feel about short engagements?”

“ _As_ we have already discussed with Gabe,” Crowley says, “We are not going to have a ten-minute engagement and a slap-dash wedding just to make your lives easier.”

“We’ve been discussing the matter between us,” Aziraphale says. “We don’t want anything particularly complicated. We have some dozen or so people we’d like to invite, and we’d like to be married in a garden ceremony. And sweet Adam and his friends have volunteered to put together the reception, so you needn’t worry about _that_ , at least.”

“Adam?” Beelzebub says. “Adam as in the antichrist Adam? Son of our lord Satan, and a very naughty brat who doesn’t do as he’s told?”

“Whose lord?” Aziraphale says, raising an eyebrow, and gets a glare in return from a bristling Beelzebub.

“ _Our_ lord,” she repeats firmly. “Mine, and Crowley’s, and _yours_ if you truly intend to enter into a union with a _denizzzen of hell_.”

Aziraphale draws himself up, every inch of English entitlement he’s picked up over the centuries dripping off of him now. “I think _not_ , you will find. Crowley and I are of _earth_ , we have made ourselves very clear on this matter. We appreciate the support from our previous associates but we would be wed _regardless_ of that support.”

Beside him, Crowley’s hand comes up to rest ever so gently on his elbow. “Angel,” he murmurs, “weren’t you the one talking about not testing people to destruction?”

“Don’t be absurd, Crowley, I merely-“

“Let’s pretend we also had that conversation the other way around,” he says, still murmuring in the hopes of blocking out their companions. “I don’t want _you_ getting hurt, either.”

“I simply-“

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” he says, more firm this time, and when Aziraphale shuts up and turns his full attention to him, says, even more hushed, “I lost you once.”

 _And I refused you once,_ Aziraphale thinks, and relents. He brings his hand up to rest over Crowley’s on his elbow. “Very well.”

“If you are _quite_ done,” Beelzebub sneers, and Aziraphale shoots her a glare, and she closes her mouth without quite realizing it.

This, too, is set aside for further consideration.

-/-

“Shall we go for breakfast?” Aziraphale asks, a small peace-offering after the four have stood in several moments of awkward silence. “We can discuss things much more comfortably over food, I think. There’s this _adorable_ cafe not too far from here that I’ve been meaning to try-”

“I don’t eat… food,” Gabriel says, and like before, Beelzebub waves his protest away.

“All right, then. Lead on.”

Aziraphale looks a little startled at her agreement- like he expected as much argument from her as from Gabriel, but it’s not often she gets the chance to indulge in earthly pleasures and it’s not often the earthly pleasures she _is_ allowed are something so pleasurable as just _eating_. He writes off his surprise, though, turning and taking Crowley’s hand between them as they lead the way through the park.

Gabriel hangs back, falling into step beside her. If not for him being an angel and doing so thus being entirely undignified, she’d swear he were pouting.

“My body is a _temple_ ,” he whines in a hiss, and she smirks up at him.

“So iz mine. And demons _enjoy_ defiling temples.”

-/-

The cafe is one from Crowley’s list, the various places he’s been meaning to take Aziraphale to now that they have the time, and he quietly marks it from the list now that Aziraphale has found it for himself. And then _doesn’t_ pout about that, because obviously Aziraphale is going to find places himself, especially places in the little space they’ve carved out in this city, but he _likes_ bringing Aziraphale to new places, loves to watch him explore the new menu and the new setting and the new atmosphere and the new people. He’s always so happy in a new restaurant, and Crowley loves knowing _he_ caused that.

Oh well, at least Aziraphale isn’t tainting any of their usual places by bringing Gabriel and Beelzebub to them. But it would still be nicer to experience this new place with just the two of them. He just _knows_ he’s going to get one of those _looks_ from Beelzebub the first time he lets Aziraphale swipe a few bites from his plate, or when Aziraphale offers him a bite off his own fork, because demons do not _do_ domestic, cute things like feeding their partners. Or have partners at all, for that matter.

Which is probably a great contributor to everyone being so miserable, now he thinks of it. If every demon had someone to love, maybe they’d all be happier and care less about tormenting humans and fighting heaven and destroying the earth. [7]

Their waitress takes their orders, and turns to Gabriel last.

“I do not-” he begins, and Azirpahale cuts him off with a hasty, “He’s fasting. Religious, you know. He won’t be needing anything.”

She looks him over at that, snorts, shrugs, and walks away with a remark to the effect of bringing their orders out soon.

“You really should _try_ eating,” Aziraphale says, once they are alone again. “It really is so pleasant. And, you don’t _need_ to, but your body will still be happy with you when you do.”

“My body is a sacred trust,” he sneers. “I won’t see it sullied by-” he looks around the cafe at the other patrons, lip curled. “- _gluttony_.”

“If you think _this_ iz Gluttony,” Beelzebub says, gesturing vaguely, “then you know _nothing_ of the Sinzz.”

“A fair point,” Aziraphale agrees. “There is a firm line between indulgence and Gluttony.”

Gabriel looks him over, gaze lingering briefly on Aziraphale’s gut, and smirks. “I suppose _you_ would know the difference.”

“You might say that. You look at your body as a trust, which I suppose it must seem to you. But I can only see my body as a gift, and to refuse the joy it is capable of giving me would be ingratitude itself, to the one who gave me this gift.”

“What,” Gabriel says, at the same time Crowley says, “ _What?!_ ”

Six thousand years, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale has spent six thousand years insisting his indulgence is no sin, and Crowley has never thought to ask him how he can be so sure of _this_ , when he frets and justifies and worries over everything else.

“The Almighty did not _have_ to give me a body capable of tasting the true bliss of a crepe, or artfully made sushi, or a glass of perfectly aged wine. My body could very easily have been made unable to feel comfort at warm grass under my bare feet, or silk sheets draped over me as I sleep- the ability to sleep at all, in fact, a complete absence. I might, had the Lord wished it so, never have known the sheer pleasure of lying in a patch of sunlight with my beloved, my body unable to realize all of the things that make such a moment pleasurable. I can only conclude, therefore, that to feel these joys was _wished_ upon me by my Creator, and so to refuse these pleasures would be to refuse the gift I have been given- a sin in itself.”

Crowley stares. It amazes him, sometimes, that after six thousand years, Aziraphale can still surprise him.

That he himself is considered one of those pleasures that Aziraphale would consider it a sin to refuse brings a lump to his throat. He clears his throat and turns his attention to helping their waitress hand out the food she’s just brought, just so that he doesn’t have to look at the absolute earnest in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Or perhaps this ability to feel pleasure is a temptation,” Gabriel says, and Crowley bristles. “I mean, of the two of us, _I’m_ not the one suddenly capable of surviving hellfire. Some part of you _must_ be sinning, here, because clearly _some_ part of you must have already Fallen.”

And it works. Crowley blesses in his head, because the blow shouldn’t have landed but he can see that it _did._ Aziraphale’s sure expression quavers, and Crowley finds his hand between them, folding his own over it and squeezing.

“Maybe,” he says, conceding the point. “ _Maybe,_ yeah. But between the two of you, only one of you has actually been personally kicked out of heaven by the Almighty. So maybe you’d better reconsider your situation before declaring one of you as more holy than the other.”

“I did not get _kicked out of heaven_ ,” Gabriel says. “I was given a job to do and told to remain on earth until I had completed it. I’m still a member of the heavenly host. I’m still an _Archangel_ . That _means_ something. Not that I’d expect _you_ to understand,” he adds with a sniff.

Crowley considers this, and smirks, letting his glasses slip down his nose so that he can look Gabriel in the eye. “Mm, right. Yes. Because no one ever heard of an Archangel Falling, after all. Above that sort of thing, Archangels, d’you think?”

Crowley can see the exact moment that Gabriel sees the reminder for what it is, and pushes his glasses back up, turning his attention fully to Aziraphale instead.

“Angel, I’ve been thinking. What if we got married in St. James’? We’ve got a lot of history in that park, it’d be perfect.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes light up, Gabriel’s words successfully banished. “Oh, my dear. That would be _wonderful_.”

“Out of the question,” Gabriel says. “Obviously a wedding sanctioned by the Almighty should be held in a cathedral.”

“ _Out of the question_ ,” Aziraphale echoes furiously.

Crowley grins. “Oh, I dunno. Something poetic about that, a demon getting married in a church.”

“I said _no_ ,” Aziraphale repeats, even more firmly this time. “Crowley, I will not have you set foot in another church on my account, even if you do think it would be _poetic_.”

“It was fine!”

“You _burned off the soles of your feet!”_ Aziraphale’s face has fallen now, the same broken bull-headed tone he’d used when he’d refused Crowley the holy water. Their companions are forgotten, watching the exchange with bemusement. “I will not have you putting yourself in danger for a _laugh,_ no matter how worth it you think it will be.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Crowley says, and adds, because it would not do to let on to their companions about the switch, “You know, _now_.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t _want_ to get married in a church. Churches only hold painful associations for me. I want to be married surrounded by greenery. I want to get married in a _garden_ , like we talked about. Unless… you don’t want to?”

“I’ll get married wherever you want to, angel,” Crowley says, because it’s true. All that matters is that Aziraphale is with him. “St. James’ or even, you know, the _moon_.”

“Hm. Is that an option?”

“Of course. Hard to get an officiant up there, though.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s face falls. “Officiants. What are we going to do about that?”

“There’z a Satanic convent not far from here,” Beelzebub points out. “They could easily provide us with a priestess to read the rites.”

“No!” Crowley snaps. “Absolutely not. I do not want _Satanists_ involved with my wedding!”

“And yet you would be wed in a _church_ ,” Beelzebub says, disgust dripping from her tone. “For _poetry_.”

“Uh, _yeah_ . But Satanists are so _annoying_ . They’re always going on and _on_ about, oh, Our Dark Lord this and The Adversary that, and it’s impossible to intimidate them after you’ve spent half an hour with them because they’ve always got _expectations_ and it’s impossible to live up to them.”

“Crowley, you are literally a giant serpent,” Aziraphale reminds him. “Surely that must…?”

He rolls his eyes. “ _No_ , because they don’t _want_ a giant fuck-off snake, they want horns and hooves and red tights.”

“You always looked so dashing in tights,” Aziraphale says wistfully, a far-away look that tells Crowley that his mind’s eye is being drawn back in time to the seventeenth century.

“Not to mention the _phalluses_ ,” Crowley adds, because he’s on a roll now, and Beelzebub groans in demonic sympathy. (Where that rumor came from is anyone’s guess, as most demons can’t really be bothered with any equipment at all. What would be the point?)

“Nevertheless,” she says, “our Master _has_ sanctioned your marriage and it would be a very unwise decision to snub his influence from the proceedings.”

“You think he’s going to drop in and have a tantrum if anyone but a Satanic priestess officiates?” Gabriel scoffs, and then at a beat all four beings shudder at the idea. _None_ of them want that, even Beelzebub, who as his right hand does most of the actual work when it comes to being in charge [8] and can therefore be assumed to be on his good side, whatever that actually means.

“I think perhaps we should put a pin in this particular discussion,” Aziraphale says, taking a careful sip of his drink. “There are other items to consider when planning a wedding. Like flowers, for example.”

“Mm, yeah.” Crowley pauses in the middle of a bite. “That’s another reason we can’t go it immediately. If you don’t order the flowers at least two weeks in advance the florist will murder you and use your body as mulch for the plants. Trust me on this one.”

“There’s the question of music,” Gabriel begins, consulting a list he’s brought out at some point, but Beelzebub waves that away.

“No point,” she says. “Demonic proximity turns any music played into Queen after awhile, and with that many demons in one place, it wouldn’t take any amount of time.” [9]

“That many demons?” Crowley echoes, a sudden sinking feeling in his middle. “How many demons?”

“The demons who will be invited,” Beelzebub says. “Because I don’t know how you missed this, but this wedding is now _political_ . Besides,” she adds, with the touch of a pout, “Demons love weddings and we _never_ get invited to them.”

“Demons love weddings?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley leans nearer to answer, “Good place to spread mischief.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I hope you aren’t thinking to spread mischief at _our_ wedding.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Gabriel says. “There’ll be plenty of angels there to keep them in line.”

“Oh dear, that’s even worse.”

“You’d rather _demons_ than _angels?”_

“I’d rather _neither_ !” Aziraphale is getting flustered now; Crowley reaches over and rests a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing gently soothing circles through his shirt. He calms a little, but not much. “I don’t _want_ anything big and complicated, I just want a little ceremony with my friends and my love, surrounded by the beauty of this amazing, terrible, _wonderful_ planet!” He sags. “Not the… _circus_ you are suggesting. I can think of _no one_ in heaven or hell whose presence would be meaningful enough to share that moment with us.”

He turns a pleading look on both of them, and tension falls on them, but after a beat Gabriel waves his distress away. “Don’t be stupid, you can’t have a wedding between a force of heaven and a denizen of hell without making it political. If you wanted something simple you should have gone for another angel, or just Fallen all the way so it could be just another wedding in hell.”

The chair clatters as Aziraphale jumps to his feet, breath he doesn’t even need coming hard as he fights back his distress. “I-” he begins, and then shakes his head and turns to storm out.

“Aziraphale-” Crowley calls, unfolding from his chair and moving to follow. Before he goes, though, he rounds on the pair, fury rolling off of him. “I did not wait six thousand years only to have you two ruin something that should be beautiful with this _farce_ you’re proposing.”

And then spins on his heels and hurries after his fiance.

-/-

 

> [7] Naturally, this is not a thought Crowley has any intention of voicing to anyone, even Aziraphale. He may be retired but he _is_ still a demon, after all. There are standards.
> 
> [8] There’s a reason so much lore has the two of them synonymous with one another, after all.
> 
> [9] It’s anyone’s guess as to why this happens.

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify the above note: Per my own approach, Aziraphale and Crowley (and demons and angels in general) don't really have a sexuality; for Aziraphale and Crowley, sex is something they enjoy in the same way they enjoy food and naps and books and driving fast and drinking wine. It's not something they feel a physical urge to do in the same way that they don't feel the physical urge to eat or sleep.


	4. Tread That Fine Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Compromise is an interesting word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are far more asides in this chapter than I intended, whoops.
> 
> Remember when this fic was a comedy?

-/-

An angel and a demon walk into a bar.

Gabriel wants to be here less than he’d wanted to be at that cafe, but when Beelzebub walked out after the other two also walked out, [1] he’d followed and this is where she’d ended up.

When they take their seats at the end of the bar, the barman brings a pair of whiskey shots over and sets in front of them, then turns and goes back to work, wondering why he did that. Beelzebub grabs one and knocks it back in one go.

“They,” she says, “are _diszguzzting_ to watch.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of him. “Aren’t they? I thought I was going to be sick when they started _touching.”_

“Six thouzand years,” she says, and his laughter falls away. He picks up the shot in front of him and sniffs it, then makes a face and sets it gingerly back down.

“Six thousand years,” he repeats. “I guess I owe Michael an apology. We argued about that- I was sure there was an innocent explanation for their meetings.”

“Not so innocent after all.”

“Well.” He leans back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling, regretting his life and all of his choices that have led to this. “At least you have the option of walking away.”

She snorts. “Please. Crowley is the golden boy down below again, at least as far as Satan is concerned. If I go back down to hell and say ‘well, Gabriel turned up, but I’m sure he’ll do fine with the wedding’, I’ll be the one taking a holy water bath next.”

“Why is _Crowley_ the golden boy?”

“Who knows?” She shrugs. “But he’s always been the favorite, basically from the beginning, really. Zz’why he got sent up to put our foot in the door on earth. Only reason we got away with the holy water bath at all is because that whole antichrist thing put him in the black books, but it was only going to be so much time before he’d slithered his way back into the red once he survived. Rising or not.”

“So what’s it like, serving a master who plays blatant favorites?”

“You tell me.”

“God does not play _favorites_ ,” he snaps, and she snorts again in response. “We are all loved equally by the Almighty. Favoritism is _your_ lot’s thing.”

“You really believe that? And, tell me, Gabriel, why is it that _you_ haven’t Fallen after going against the will of God and trying to completely destroy one of your own as a scapegoat?”

“Well- _obviously_   God understood that I was only acting in the best interest of heaven, and that my actions were, at best, no more than simply misguided.”

She stares- “Right. Okay.” -and grabs the second shot, knocking it back just as quickly as the first, then stands. “You’re a self-righteous prick with your head so far up your own backside you can’t see your own hypocrisy.”

And without so much as a fare-thee-well, he’s left alone with nothing more than two empty shot glasses, the whining buzz of a sudden cloud of flies drifting away, and _another_ bill that he has to pay because That’s What Good People Do. Dammit.

-/-

> [1] Leaving him with the check, which he obviously paid, of course, because he’s the Archangel Fucking Gabriel and the greater good involves paying for services rendered, even if he himself never partook of said services.

-/-

Crowley catches up with Aziraphale not far from the cafe, slowing his retreat with a call of ‘Angel!’ that has a few humans glancing up from their own thoughts before returning just as quickly when they realize they aren’t going to witness Drama.

Aziraphale’s steps come to a halt and he waits for Crowley to join him, allowing himself to be pulled aside into a conveniently placed alleyway out of the flow of foot traffic.

“All right?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale takes a long, deep, steadying breath, letting all of it out in a _whoosh_ as he regains his composure.

“Why in the _world_ did we agree to this, Crowley?”

“As I recall, because you wanted to show our respective bosses what was so wonderful about earth,” and, when Aziraphale looks disgruntled, adds, “You didn’t think it was going to happen in one go, did you? It took you a thousand years to even admit that the earth was a nice place to live and _you_ liked being here from the start.”

“Well, yes, but…” 

He sighs, fretting and fussing with his hands while he considers his decision. _This_ now, this is more like the Aziraphale that Crowley fell in love with, always making the kind decision and then second-guessing himself afterward. It’s a breath of fresh air for Crowley: he loves the sureness that Aziraphale has adopted more recently, but in his experience sureness in angels is never the best route. Much as he doesn’t want Aziraphale to worry, he likes that he does stop to think about _whether_ his kind decision is really to the best.

Keeping Aziraphale in that middle ground between thoughtless kindness and second-guessing his every decision is a full time job, but it’s one that Crowley is happy to take on now that he’s no longer on hell’s metaphorical payroll.

“We’re stuck between a rock and another rock,” Crowley says. “But say the word and I’ll tell them both to fuck off. We never asked for their help.”

“I don’t think there’s any call for that,” Aziraphale says. He reaches out, almost unconsciously, and Crowley’s hand is there to meet his in the middle. Neither pushes the touch: the contact itself is enough, grounds the angel as his worries run him in circles in his mind.

He takes another deep breath. “All right. I think I’m well now.”

“Not changed your mind, then?”

“No. I will simply have to exercise more _patience_ in the future.”

“You’ll need it, if you plan to put up with Gabriel.”

“And Beelzebub,” Aziraphale adds, and Crowley shrugs.

“Nah, Beelzebub's not so bad. Not a hypocrite, at least.”

“They did try to murder you,” Aziraphale reminds him with a sniff. “And was just as keen to destroy the earth as Gabriel was. And tried to murder you.”

Crowley shrugs again. He’s never exactly liked Beelzebub, but having served in both heaven and hell he at least knows which he prefers working under. And Beelzebub hadn’t tried to execute him in the name of the greater good— just as a scapegoat over the failed apocalypse. There’s something he can respect about Beelzebub as a boss that he can’t about Gabriel.

Still, she tried to murder him. And Crowley knows how he feels about Gabriel for trying to murder Aziraphale, so he doesn’t make any more protests, instead bringing Aziraphale’s hand up and pressing a kiss to the joint of his thumb.

“All right. But Gabriel is still more insufferable. ‘My body is a _temple,'_   he mocks, and a hesitant laugh bubbles out of Aziraphale before deciding it likes the view and settling into a proper chuckle. Crowley grins at him. “Shall we go back? Or do you want to ditch them and do something else?”

“Let’s go window shopping for wedding flowers,” Aziraphale says. “You can tell me all of the things you pretend not to know about plants.”

“I do not-“ Crowley begins, and then decides that it doesn’t matter if Aziraphale knows how much he knows about horticulture and cuts himself off. He grins instead, and the two rejoin the flow of foot traffic, leaving behind a very confused alleyway that was three blocks away twenty minutes ago. [2]

-/-

> [2] After a mild existential crisis, the alleyway decides the view here is better anyway, and settles down to its new life.

-/-

A demon sits brooding on the throne of hell.

Not _The_ throne of hell, of course, that’s a big, obsidian monstrosity oozing ichor and malice and the promise of sore buttocks that dominates the throne room. It has horns, because of course it does, and spikes, because of course it does, and it is impossible to sit properly in, because _of course it is_.

The throne that sits in its shadow is, like its owner, smaller and far more understated. It reeks of decay, from the corroded iron frame to the musty remains of a cushion that has long since rotted away. Flies swarm around it, some flying, some crawling on its surface and on the body of its occupant, who currently looks like little more than a rotting corpse, sunk into the seat as she is.

Beelzebub has, metaphorically, shed her coat and shoes-- the outer layer of her physical form shucked and tossed aside, so that her truest form is oozing out at the edges. A thick miasma pours out of her, swirling around her feet, drawing the attention of her ever-present flies, while maggots writhe on the surface.

She sinks down a little farther on her throne, letting her physical form hang like a ragdoll while she spreads her awareness into her flies, watching the world through their many-faceted eyes instead.

There’s not much to see in the throne room, but it’s easier to think like this.

What Beelzebub is thinking about is the word compromise.

It’s a very demonic word, and a very useful one when it comes to temptation, though Crowley has explained that it’s a human idea.

Compromise. Meet someone in the middle over a disagreement. Find the common ground between you. Come to an agreement that works for both of you.

Of course, once they meet you in the middle, they’re that much closer to where you want them to be. So much easier to lead someone into temptation by a half-life at a time. A human idea, but one demons have turned into a tool of temptation.

A few years ago- possibly a few centuries; the passage of time is tricky to keep track of- Beelzebub had discovered that Crowley was fraternizing with the angel of the eastern gate, the principality Aziraphale. And she had, quite naturally, confronted him about the matter. [3]

For just one moment, Crowley had seemed panicked, and then his face had split into a nasty grin, the sort of grin any demon would be proud of, the sort of grin a demon might spend hours in front of the mirror to perfect.

“You’re going to love this,” he’d said, and, “It’s my little pet project.” And then he’d grinned wider, and said, “I’m _tempting_ him. Imagine- tempting an angel of the Lord to Fall from Grace. My crowning achievement, that.”

He’d fallen silent, then, swaying ever so slowly on the spot, golden gaze boring into her, eyes locked until she felt she were swaying too.

“Temptation… is zzweeter when the target haz faaarther to fallll,” she’d buzzed out, and his smile had shifted and she’d felt like the world was being pulled out from under her.

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” he’d said, and winked, and then he was gone. It was- ages? A moment?- after he left that she realized what he’d done, and her Wrath had sent lesser demons fleeing in terror. But then something had come up that needed her attention, and she’d set Crowley aside to deal with later, and then later, and then… sort of… forgot.

She wasn’t entirely sure how. But she’d never let herself look Crowley in the eye after that.

When they’d found out about the depths of Crowley’s treachery, when he’d sauntered out of hell, still dripping holy water, she’d curled up on her throne, alone in the empty throne room, and thought, _when you meet someone halfway, you’re closer to their side at the same time they’re closer to yours._

When the disposable demon had come back down with the hellfire, clearly shaken, telling her about Aziraphale’s failed trial, she’d bitten through the skin of her fists and the buzzing scream of the flies around her had reached a fever pitch for several moments before fading away.

 _And at some point,_ she thought, once the terror had settled back down into a dull hum, _if you’re not careful, you walk right past each other._

Beelzebub knows, deep down, that she will have to compromise with Gabriel and with Crowley and with Aziraphale. She will have to talk to Gabriel about every small thing that one of them suggests, because he will have Opinions and she will have Opinions, and they are both incredibly stubborn people when it comes to their Opinions. And Aziraphale and Crowley will have their own Opinions, and will argue, sometimes on sheer principal, and she will have to put up with Aziraphale glaring daggers at her every time she tries to talk to Crowley, and-

-oh, hang on. A thought buzzes up to the surface, and she lets the turbulent waters of her musings still while it settles into place.

The angel. There’s something- very _familiar_ about that coil of angelic fury that surrounds him when he feels that Crowley is in danger. She can’t quite put her finger on it yet, but it makes her uneasy.

Another thought joins it, unbidden: Crowley, deferring to her the same as he always has. Trembling at her sudden appearance, as any demon in hell’s black books _should_ do when faced with the prince of hell but _not_ when his last time in hell he’d threatened to fight every demon in hell if need be. The image is so at odds with their last encounter, when he’d terrified her as much as her own master’s temper a mere twelve hours previous, and she can’t make it add up in her mind.

As had happened several decades (centuries?) past, Beelzebub feels as if she’s been tricked. But she can’t- yet- put her finger on exactly how.

She lets more of her Self trickle out of her corporation, until it would take very good eyes and determination to see the body on the throne as anything more than a man long-dead, and lets her mind start wandering again.

-/-

> [3] In case the reader is wondering, the approximate year was 1862.

-/-

Gabriel doesn’t really have anywhere to be, or anywhere to go, and for lack of options, and not wanting to go back to the flat, he ends up in St. James’, jogging a circuit of the park. It’s a good way to clear his head, and keeps his body in good condition— and regardless of what Aziraphale had implied, he _does_ treat his body as a gift. Just because Aziraphale _pampers_ his body doesn’t mean that Gabriel doesn’t let his feel good. He just lets it feel good in ways that Gabriel feels are acceptable for an angel of the Lord- like exercising, or wearing nice suits that let him look his best at all times.

(Were Gabriel more prone to introspection, he would worry that this was slipping too close to vanity, which is the daughter of Pride, but does not allow himself such things as _second guessing;_ asked, he would say that he must always look his best as a reflection of God’s purpose, and then wonder why this isn’t obvious to the asker.)

As he jogs, he is startled out of the thoughtless calm his mind has drifted into by the appearance of Uriel at his side. He slows to a halt, and turns his sunny grin onto the other Archangel.

“Uriel! What brings you down here?” _Please tell me I’m being recalled_ , he thinks, and carefully doesn’t say. An angel on thin ice shouldn’t go around asking for mercy until it becomes absolutely necessary.

Uriel gives him a thoughtful look, eyes taking him in without a word. After a moment, “You smell of evil. Not _just_ the demon Crowley, either.”

He tries to keep his face from falling. No reprieve, then. “Right,” he says. “There’s a bit of a hitch in my mission, it turns out.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Beelzebub. It turns out hell is as invested in this wedding as heaven is.”

“What does hell stand to gain from this?”

“Humiliation?” he suggests. “I mean… it’s a bit embarrassing that one of our own would want to marry a demon. Even an angel as pathetic as Aziraphale.”

“Wouldn’t hell be just as embarrassed by one of their own being bound in matrimony to an angel?” Uriel points out, and adds, “Even a demon as worthless as Crowley.”

“I don’t profess to understand the thought processes of infernal forces, Uriel,” he points out, and swaps subjects with, “How is everything up Above? Nothing falling apart without me, right?”

Uriel turns an unimpressed gaze onto him. “Heaven is in no danger of falling apart for the lack of you. The other Archangels are perfectly capable of running things in your absence.”

“It’s a fair question,” he nearly, but not quite, pouts. “Remember how hard it was picking up the slack last time the number of Archangels in heaven went down?”

“Why are you talking about that?” Uriel demands, giving him a suspicious look. “That was an eternity ago, and it’s not the same thing. You’re not _Fallen,_ not like they were. You’re just doing a job. Why bring it up?”

 _I’m not sure,_ he doesn’t say, and then claps the other Archangel’s shoulder. “I’m just worried. I don’t like leaving my work to others, and I’d rather be in heaven than down here, watching those two _moon_ over each other.”

He wouldn’t say that Uriel’s expressions softens here, but the suspicion does fade away in favor of sympathy. “Are they that bad?”

“They keep _touching.”_ He scowls. “And they call each other by _petnames.”_

“Well. Better you than me,” Uriel says, then gives him a beatific smile and vanishes in a whorl of heavenly light.

Gabriel sighs, and turns his gaze skyward.

“This feels like cruel and unusual punishment,” he says.

He doesn’t get a response- not that he was expecting one- but he does get the sudden sense that, were he to push the matter, he might be introduced to what ‘cruel and unusual’ actually means. He decides it’s better to be glad he hasn’t Fallen, and returns to his jog, letting his thoughts fade into the background until they’ve stilled completely.

-/-

Consider Death. [4]

Specifically, the earthly angel of Death Azrael. The reader might remember him from that embarrassing matter of the Armagaddon’t. He was the chap in the black robes. Couldn’t miss him.

Aziraphale and Crowley are quite familiar with Death, of course. While they consider themselves the only beings to have been around for the entirety of earth’s history, this is not _entirely_ true. Death has been there almost as long as them; from the time the first life was taken, he has been humanity’s- and every other living thing’s- shadow.

And, as Aziraphale and Crowley have had their share of near-Death experiences, this must naturally mean that Death has had his fair share of near-Aziraphale and near-Crowley experiences.

They are, for a given value of the phrase, old friends.

Now they stand hand-in-hand in the florist’s shop, watching him loom over a carnation, as still as a statue. As they look on, he reaches into his robe and takes out a very small scythe, bringing it to hover over one of the leaves. He checks something in his hand, and both hold their breath as the very small scythe swings through the air, knocking aside a few molecules before severing the life of a gnat that had settled on the leaf.

He straightens, gathering the soul of the gnat and stowing it away into his robe, then turns to the pair.

HELLO, he says.

“All right?” Crowley asks, and then, “Well, I guess you can’t really be anything else, being Death and all.”

I AM WELL. THANK YOU FOR ASKING.

Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale glances down at their joined hands, and then brightens. “We’re getting married,” he says.

CONGRATULATIONS.

“Would you like to come to the wedding?”

Death is silent, staring off- well, staring, in general. It’s not like he has any other options. After a moment, he nods. I WOULD LIKE THAT.

“We’ll be in touch, then,” Crowley says, and then makes a noise rather like ‘ahngh’ and pulls Aziraphale from the shop. Once they’re far enough away, he hisses, “What’d you go inviting him for? That’sss bad luck, that iss!”

“We’re already going to have bad luck, with half the upper echelons of heaven and hell there. And he’s our oldest friend.”

“ _Is_ he a friend?”

“Well, he’s the person we’ve known longer than anyone else on earth. We witnessed his birth.”

“We witnessed his conception as the incarnation of earthly Death,” Crowley corrects, which is much the same thing. “And we didn’t really _know_ that’s what we were looking at at the time. We mostly just kinda watched him from the distance and wondered what he was doing to that lion.”

Aziraphale concedes the truth in this, but he maintains his insistence on the matter, and Crowley can’t really think of a good argument anyway. Given the choice, he’d rather have Death at his wedding than a bunch of angels and demons, and definitely more than Gabriel.

“Where do you think he got a scythe that small?” Aziraphale asks conversationally. Crowley considers the question.

“Cereal box?”

-/-

> [4] Not to be mistaken for his cousin, Death.

-/-

It is much later in the evening before the pair finally relent and call up their superiors to reconvene. They meet in the bookshop this time, though Aziraphale first has to swear that he won’t let them upstairs to their private living area at least.

Gabriel arrives first, but no sooner has he entered than they scent the faint whiff of decay and then, with a small pop, Beelzebub appears, wearing the unmistakable expression of one who was quite enjoying lying around in their underwear and is not happy with having to put on trousers and socialize.

“Oh good, you’re both here,” Aziraphale says, gesturing welcomingly at the pair of couches squashed into his backroom. 

One couch is long and plush and remarkably comfortable to sleep on, and the second is sleek and white and smells of new leather and radiates an air of being both very uncomfortable to sit on and very confused about its sudden relocation to the shop. Since the couple are gravitating toward the plush couch, settling into it like it’s been molded around them, Archangel and demon prince choose the latter, Gabriel sitting primly on the edge while Beelzebub doesn’t so much sit as drapes herself against the arm, legs sprawled out in front of her and crossed at the ankles.

“We’ve been talking,” Aziraphale says, folding his hands in his lap while Crowley spills into the corner, one long leg propped up on Aziraphale’s knee. He has his glasses off and his eyes locked on Gabriel’s, daring him to comment. Gabriel says nothing.

“We are- that is to say, the pair of us- well, we don’t want a big circus of a wedding,” he goes on. “But we also understand that we’ve inadvertently created some _politics_ with our union, hereditary enemies coming together and all that.”

“Very Romeo and Juliet of us,” Crowley drawls. “Except instead of stabbing each other Tybalt and Mercutio are planning the wedding.”

Aziraphale swats playfully at him, and he responds with a toothy grin, but neither of their superiors understand the reference.

“Well, anyway, we’ve been talking,” Aziraphale repeats. “Here are our conditions: you may invite whatever figures you feel it is necessary, but for every demon invited, a similarly-matched angel must be invited as well, and vice versa. And they will be seated with their counterparts for the wedding.”

“What iz the point of this?”

“Keeping each other in check,” Crowley says. “Harder to make mischief when there’s someone there to interfere with your attempt. Think of it as… canceling each other out,” and then shares a private smile with Aziraphale, whose hand comes over to squeeze at his ankle absently.

“It’z a compromize,” Beelzebub states.

“Yes! Yes, _exactly._ We’re meeting each other halfway on the wedding.”

Beelzebub looks over at Gabriel with a questioning tilt of her brow. In her memory, he’s not good at meeting anyone halfway; angels in general aren’t. He meets her gaze, though, and finally nods.

“Fine, all right. Why not?”

-/-

Twenty minutes later, a coffee table has been summoned between the two couches (it’s a miracle that the tiny backroom has enough space to accommodate two couches and a coffee table), and Gabriel has spread a stack of bridal magazines out on the surface. The checklist he and Beelzebub made is also in front of them, but more notes have been scribbled into the margins. There are also four glasses of wine and a bottle; two glasses have been untouched, since Gabriel doesn’t consume and Beelzebub prefers whiskey to wine.

“Next on the lizt is clothes,” Beelzebub reads.

“We can get my tailor to handle that,” Gabriel says. “He does excellent work- well-” And holds up his arms so their attention is drawn to the cut of his suit. “I’ve been going to the same shop for centuries, you know. They do a wonderful job of making this body look _good.”_

“That almost sounds like Pride,” Crowley drawls, grabbing Gabriel’s untouched wine glass.

“Merely admiration for quality work,” Gabriel says, not rising to the bait. Instead he picks up one of the magazines and flips through it. “Oh, all of these couples have one of them in a wedding dress. It’s supposed to be the most important part- were either of you planning on one?”

“Not me,” Aziraphale says, while Crowley picks up one of the magazines as well, eyeing the dresses featured in its pages. He wrinkles his nose.

“All a bit princess, aren’t they?” He shrugs, and sets the magazine back down. “Eh, probably not. We’ll see.”

-/-

The author’s note on this conversation says ‘don’t get their hopes up’. An explanation is in order, then.

Gender is, of course, a human concept- it didn’t exist before them, and it barely exists outside of them. In fact, of all the angels and demons in heaven and hell, only one actually has what could be considered a gender at all- not that he knows this. _That_ would require him to be capable of being introspective. [5]

 

Neither of them really  _has_ anything that could be called a "gender"; they present the way they do because this is what pleases them, and were gender to be written from the world tomorrow, both of them would carry right on presenting however they want to, because neither of them cater their preferences toward their supposed  _gender._ Aziraphale is, yes, somewhat rigid in his fashion choices, but this is more in line with a more rigid nature in general, as well as an angelic sense of propriety that means going along with local custom, rather than a desire to be seen as or present as a man. Crowley, by contrast, wears whatever he pleases, whatever fancies him, and anything that catches his eye that he thinks will look good on him, and while dresses aren't his  _favorite_ attire, they aren't exempt, either.

All of this is really just a long-winded way of saying that, yes, Crowley wearing a wedding dress- if he could find one that suited him- is a possibility in _theory_ . But the author is far too cheap for Crowley- that is, a _very specific_ iteration of Crowley- in incredibly tight trousers, and so will not _actually_ allow it.

-/-

> [5] How Gabriel of all people managed to grow a gender is another aside entirely.
> 
> [6] After the invention of England, he updated this to being an _English_ lover of men.

-/-

Gabriel isn’t exactly _tired_ when he finally leaves the bookshop, parting with Beelzebub out on the street before making his way back to Mayfair. He doesn’t _get_ tired, and he doesn’t think sleep will help him, no matter that Crowley kept pointedly talking about how nice sleep was toward the end of the evening there.

He is _weary_ though. It’s been a long day, and now that he’s alone he can feel the regret curling up in him over not being able to just return home. If only he could go up to heaven when he’s not doing any wedding planning. It’s not like every minute is going to be spent on it, after all, and what does it matter if he’s on earth or heaven in the interim?

He just wants to go _home_.

His feet bring him back to Mayfair without his interference. He stands outside of it, staring up at the old building, thinking about Crowley’s empty, barren flat, with nothing to do but sit on the uncomfortable couch (which has probably been returned now that he and Beelzebub aren’t sitting on it) and stare at the television. Or maybe use the computer, but he still hasn’t figured out how to connect it to the internet so there’s not much point there unless he wants to play endless games of solitaire.

The thought of spending another night in the flat sends an ache through him that he doesn’t know how to identify.

So he decides not to, and instead turns to make his way toward the park. He doesn’t need to sleep, or rest, so he’ll just jog until morning, and that will clear his weariness better than anything so slothful as _sleeping._

-/-

Beelzebub _can_ go home, and does. She finds herself in the council room this time, listening to the rest of the Dark Council recount the deeds of the day. Hastur is talking now, detailing the temptation of a politician who, as Beelzebub understands it, was one of Ligur’s temptations.

But then, Hastur has taken on all of Ligur’s temptations since- well, _since._ The duke had felt it would be remiss to let all of that hard work go to waste, not when Ligur was one of the best at the craftmanship of tarnishing souls so carefully that they’d never notice until it was too late. Many a soul had been brought to hell under the firm conviction that they had done the right thing.

“Shut up, Hastur,” Dagon suddenly says, and Hastur’s mouth clicks closed, startled, before opening again.

“You would do well to remember your place, Dagon. You are not so long a duke that you have weight to throw around in this council room.”

“Shut _up,_ Hastur,” Beelzebub echoes, and this time Hastur does shut up. Beelzebub sinks down into her chair. “I have a thought. About this wedding business.”

“Oh.” Hastur’s lip curls in disdain. “What concern is it of _ours,_ this wedding? I thought we’d agreed to leave Crowley and his pet angel alone.”

“Yeah, well, our master has other ideazz,” she snaps. “But I think it might be pozzible to turn this to our advantage.”

“Speak on, then,” Dagon says, “At least if it will shut Hastur’s mouth.”

Beelzebub ignores this dig, even as Hastur glares poisoned daggers at Dagon’s words. “The guest list is meant to contain one equally-matched angel for each demon, and vice versa, and they’ll be paired for seating arrangements. According to the angel, this is to keep us from starting trouble. But I can’t think of any better way to start trouble than each of us already having someone we can subdue.”

Hastur’s eyes widen. “You’re proposing a coup.”

“Armageddon,” Dagon hisses delightedly. “Take two. And right there at the traitor’s wedding, no less.”

Beelzebub grins a nasty sort of grin, and says, “Oh yes. But,” she adds hastily, “I still have my orders. The wedding must be perfect. We will have to time this _very_ carefully.”

“How much time do we have to plan?”

Beelzebub shrugs. “Who knowz? They haven’t even szet a date yet, and they can’t do that until we szettle on a location. But we have time in which to plan.”

Grins spread around the rest of the council, each one thinking with delight about finally- _finally-_ getting the chance to have the war that Crowley robbed them of nearly a year past.

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later-date author's note: A little clarification of my headcanons- Angels and demons, as I write them, have no cultural concept of gender, which means that for any angel or demon gender is a purely perceptive thing that has more to do with how humans respond to them than any intrinsic feeling of "this is the gender I have". This means that while they aren't binary, they aren't non-binary either, because non-binary is still a relationship with gender. They simply _are_. 
> 
> However, those who spend a lot of time around humans do develop preferences. Aziraphale and Crowley both _prefer_ to be seen as men, unless the job calls for otherwise, though neither is particularly rigid in upholding that if it comes down to it. (Crowley does occasionally get tetchy if people start calling him her the second he puts on a skirt, but that has more to do with annoyance at human behavior than any preference for pronouns. Also, the author may be projecting a tiny bit.) Gabriel, as mentioned above, _does_ have a strong enough preference that he could almost be said to have a gender himself, but it's up in the air whether this will come up within the fic. Beelzebub could care less what gender people see her as as long as they fear her and show her the proper respect due to a prince of hell; her use of she pronouns within the narration is due to private author reasons rather than any indication of her "true" gender (since she doesn't have one).
> 
> Outside of narration, pronouns for everyone tends to be all over the place; since none of them have genders and by extension preferred pronouns themselves, referring to each other with gendered language is different for all of them, and has been fun to play with.


	5. The Sun Was Always Shining, We Just Lived For Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks are a moment in time for eternal beings, except when said eternal beings are an Archangel who's been barred from heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter considering my standard chapter range for this fic, but everything I have slated to happen next would be a tone change that I'm not comfortable having in the chapter itself, so the short chapter will just have to stand.
> 
> Wasn't this fic supposed to be a comedy?
> 
> The funny bits will (hopefully) pick up next chapter, I just needed to actually get things moving the right way. Be glad I decided on a timeskip rather than actually going through the entire two weeks in full.

-/-

The days pass, slowly for the two unwilling wedding planners and comfortably for the blissfully happy couple they are trapped with.

Aziraphale and Crowley do not consider wedding planning to be a thing they must do every day. They do not even have a date to work toward- that, apparently, will be set when they decide on a venue, and then arrange it with said venue.

The venue will take time to decide on. Gabriel has relented on having a church wedding, conceding that it wouldn’t exactly be a perfect wedding if half the guests burst into flame on entering, but he is standing firm on the matter of a Satanic venue in return. Just because angels are  _ able _ to stand on Satanic ground, doesn’t mean they have any wish to.

The couple’s suggestion of getting married in a park that has always meant so much to them is ignored.

The officiant is another matter of contention. Beelzebub would prefer a Satanic priestess; Crowley insists on putting his foot down on involving Satanists at all. Gabriel smugly says that obviously they need an officiant from one of the Godly religions- there are a few to choose from- and Aziraphale scoffs and says that this would be simply unbearable.

And there is the guest list. Really, they only want their friends in Tadfield to share in their day with them, a number rounding at about twenty once the children’s families are taken into account (and it wouldn’t do to exclude them). But Beelzebub and Gabriel have turned it  _ political, _ and spend a great deal of time arguing about which angels and demons should be given the dubious honor of an invitation, and which demons should be matched with which angels to meet the terms.

(In this, at least, Beelzebub has the upper hand, as Gabriel doesn’t know who any of the demons once were and Beelzebub has never forgotten any of the angels she served under and alongside. The matching is an easy thing to manipulate, so long as Crowley doesn’t pay enough attention.)

But in the middle of all of this: an angel and a demon, neither of heaven nor hell, go about loving each other.

It has been two weeks.

-/-

Sometime over the winter, Aziraphale had acquired a small collection of first-edition Rosie M. Banks novels. While dime-store romance is not a genre he has a particular attachment to, he’s always found Mrs. Banks’ novels to be attractive reading, and he remembers the young lady the few times they met, and she had been such an interesting person that he can’t help thinking fondly of her now.

He’s in the comfortable reading chair he keeps in the front of the shop now, reading Only A Factory Girl while he makes a show at having the shop open for a few hours, when Crowley comes up behind him and leans on the back of the chair. He arms drift down idly, hands running along Aziraphale’s shoulders and neck, placing not-quite pressure against muscles stiff from his hours in the same position.

“Mmm,” he hums, setting his thumb very carefully into the book and tilting his head back to meet Crowley’s eyes. “Hello, my dear.”

“Hello yourself. Been reading this whole time?”

“Almost. A young woman came in earlier attempting to purchase the first-edition Hobbit in the window, but I told her it was display only and she left in a huff.”

“I keep telling you not to display the ones you  _ really _ couldn’t bear to part with,” Crowley reminds, hands drifting up from his neck to card through his dandelion-fluff curls, nails scraping pleasingly against his scalp. He leans into the touch with another pleased hum.

“I do with most of them,” he says. “But you gave me that one, and it was such a lovely gift, I can’t help but want to put it on display for the world to see.”

He tilts his head back and rolls his shoulders as the touch teasing his scalp takes on a bit more pressure, moving back down his neck again. A soft sigh escapes him, and he opens his eyes to see Crowley staring down at him as a wave of love nearly knocks his metaphorical knees out from under him.

“Oh, dearest,” he sighs, closes his eyes to let himself bask in the warmth of Crowley’s love. “I do love you so completely.”

Crowley carries on soothing away the stiffness from his muscles, saying nothing. Not everything needs to be put into words to be heard.

Aziraphale has been soothed nearly into a doze when a thought occurs to Crowley.

“Angel.”

“Hmmm?”

“Are we going to change our alias’ names after the wedding?”

Aziraphale’s eyes open lazily to peer up at Crowley. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he admits, and closes his eyes again. “Hmm. ‘Azure Crowley’.” He rolls the name over in his mind for a moment, considering the possibilities. He’s never been particularly attached to Fell, and since the original A. Z. Fell is, per his cover story, an ancestor, there’s no reason to keep it for the sake of the shop. “Or did you mean to take my alias’s name instead? Anthony F-”

He breaks off. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to see the shit-eating grin Crowley is sporting, but he does, and sure enough, Crowley is grinning down at him, hands stilled as he enjoys his little joke.

Aziraphale’s disapproving frown fades quickly to one of mirth, and he chuckles. “Caught onto my little joke, did you?”

Crowley’s eyes light up. “You _noticed?”_

“Of  _ course _ I noticed, I’ve been using the name for several centuries now. How could I have never spotted it?”

Aziraphale gives him mischievous smile, while Crowley moves around the chair and- after taking the abandoned book and setting it carefully onto the nearest flat surface- settles into the chair with him, snug against him, legs dangling over the arm.

“Angel,” he says, very seriously, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, _“_ _ Y ou _ have a sense of humor.”

“It took you six thousand years to notice?”

“I think it took you six thousand years to grow it.”

“You’re terrible.”

“And yet you want to marry me, which  _ I _ think says far more about you than about me.”

“Hmm, possibly.” Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s middle, giving him a more comfortable perch while his other hand reaches over to retrieve his book (which is miraculously within reach as soon as he does). “I think,” he says, before he returns to it, “That the sort of human I’m pretending to be is the sort of human who would quite  _ like _ to take his husband’s last name.”

-/-

The main problem with long breaks between wedding planning, at least from where Gabriel is standing, is that this leaves him long periods with nothing to do. Even he can only spend so much time jogging in the park, and he’s done it so much in the past two weeks that he’s starting to get  _ recognized _ by the other park frequenters.

“Morning, Mr. Arc,” one such park frequenter calls as he jogs by. An older lady, an early riser who comes here every morning to enjoy the sunrise. He spares her a wave and carries on past, but she doesn’t take his silence for a snub, at least judging by the way she goes back to her skygazing with a content smile.

A couple also jogging come up alongside him, keeping pace for a stretch. They exchange brief pleasantries- they ask how his day is going, he tells them it’s fine and then almost belatedly remembers he’s meant to ask after them as well. More pleasantries are exchanged, and they part ways.

They’d said at some point in the exchange that their son has a touch of flu; Gabriel considers this for a moment before sending a small blessing their way, then goes back to keeping his mind clear and his thoughts on the wedding.

According to the research he’s done in all of his spare time, when he has no choice but to return to the flat, he’s found talk of a ‘wedding registry’, meant for guests to select gifts for the married couple. He’d asked Mrs. Bennet about the matter- she’s been an invaluable resource for him, inviting him in to chat with her while she goes about her usual business.

(Usually cleaning. He’s been to her flat about three or four times, and all but one of those she seemed to be in the process of cleaning her home from top to bottom. When he’d asked, she’d given him a gentle smile and said, “It wouldn’t do to leave the work for someone else, would it?” And gone back to scrubbing the space behind her bookshelf. This had given him pause: as he understood it, humans loved letting other humans do their cleaning for them.

The other time she was painting. He’d peeked, and seen a sort of mediocre watercolor of a rather plain looking man he found out later was her late husband. There were more paintings hung around her home that she had done, she told him, all vaguely middling scenes of flowery meadows and pretty waterfronts, sometimes scenes of blobby children playing, and sometimes images of animals. They’re none of them particularly noteworthy, but she’s proud of all of them; he can feel the joy in her work rolling off of her whenever he takes the time to look at them.)

“I don’t really think a wedding registry would be necessary for Anthony and his young man,” she’d told him, when he asked. “It’s meant to help a couple set up a household, and they’re already living together, and Anthony has so many modern gizmos gathering dust in that flat of his- I can’t think that there’s anything the pair of them will actually need.”

“But gifts are a traditional part of a wedding,” he’d said. “It says so in all of the books I’ve read on the subject.”

“Dear boy,” she’d replied, “The only important tradition in a wedding is the binding of two yearning hearts. Any tradition that doesn’t suit them or fit their needs can be discarded. As for the gifts, when they have the things they need already, personal items can also be given. Something meaningful to them as a couple, from the people who love them.”

The trouble with gifts, Gabriel muses as he jogs, is that an angel and a demon are perfectly capable of summoning anything they might need at any given time. What would be the point of giving them something, then? And while it’s true that they both greatly enjoy material objects- the flat, barren as it is, is inundated with them, and the less said about the backroom of the shop the better- they still have the means to acquire them without trouble.

But gifts are  _ traditional. _ Necessary. They can’t just not have them. 

_What do you get the man-shaped beings who can have anything?_ he wonders. _What has meaning enough to count?_

-/-

While Gabriel is restricted to earth for the duration of the planning, Beelzebub is free to come and go as she pleases. With no current responsibilities to the planning at the moment, she heads down to look in on things- it doesn’t do to leave the Dark Council without someone looking over their shoulder, after all, not if she expects things to keep running efficiently.

Once she’s finished putting the fear of herself back into her subordinates, she swarms into the throne room for a good long brood and then pulls up short at the realization that the throne room is not as unoccupied as usual. She reforms and draws herself up to full height, then bows low at the waist.

“Lord,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you in here today.”

“That would make two of us, then, darling.” He vanishes in a swirl of sulfurous smoke and reforms behind her, closer to her in size and she can  _ feel _ the strain at the metaphorical seams of his form, to be pressed into a shape so small. He circles her, and draws a finger under her chin, tilting her head back to look up at him. “I was under the impression that you were planning Crowley’s wedding up on earth.”

“Azzz I have been, my lord,” she says, pouring a little of her Self into her flies just to ease the discomfort of being so close to him. Her syllables suffer, creating a multi-layered echo of speech. “Planning a wedding iz not a conzztant thing and Crowley,” and it takes everything in her not to spit his name as a curse, or a blessing, whatever, not when he is the golden child once more, the prodigal son returned to their master’s favor, “Would zpend time with hizz betrothhhed rather than make efficzzient usze of hizz time.”

“I see. And what efficient use are you making of  _ your _ time, Prince?”

“Overszeeing the Dark Counczil. Attending my other dutiez. And-“ And here she reaches into her pocket, taking out her copy of the checklist. The paper has been expanded to account for notes scribbled in four different hands, and she doesn’t protest when he takes it from her without question. “There are things that can be thought of, even when we are not actively planning.”

He ignores this last bit, instead staring down at the list.

“Whose hand is this?” He gestures at the illegible calligraphy that makes up the list itself.

“The Archangel Gabriel,” she answers, and, “There iz szomething you muszt know, Lord.”

-/-

It’s late. The sun has dipped behind the city skyline, creating a dim red-orange glow and casting London into a deep silhouette. At the base of a flat in Mayfair, an Archangel slows his steps in a deep reluctance to approach said flat, and then he feels the world shift around him and his steps quicken again.

He would not be able to say why, if asked. It is something within him, deeper than thought, deeper than instinct, deeper than obedience: his feet carry him up the stairs, past the door that leads to Crowley’s flat and the terrified plants and the holy water stain and the state-of-the-art gadgetry he has no use for, all the way up to the roof.

He pauses in the doorway, staring. The cityscape is backlit by the setting sun, putting the figure on the roof's edge into shadow. Were he human, were he unable to sense what his eyes struggle to make out clearly, he would think he were looking at an angel: certainly that's the impression that would be taken from the stark white wings almost glowing at her back.

His breath catches in his throat. He'd never thought to see those wings again.

-/-

Hell is not a comfortable place to be, even for the demons who call it home, but those who rule it have learned to carve it around them and  _ make _ it comfortable for them. Beelzebub is one such; she has shaped hell to herself and herself to hell for an eon until one is indistinguishable from the other.

But there is comfort that even she cannot achieve in hell, and so she finds herself on the roof of a Mayfair flat, face to the setting sun as she lets the earth wrap around her like a silk shawl, like a warm bath, like a companion’s arm... or wing.

She lets herself seep through the gaps in her form, and once the tension has melted away somewhat she unfolds her wings with a soft sigh. She doesn’t get to do this often, not in hell: it is a foolish demon who reveals something so vulnerable and intimate in such a place. [1]

She stretches her wings first out, then up, then gives a few lazy flaps to get the blood pumping in them, and finally lets them hang loose and languid behind her. It’s been so  _ long _ since she let them manifest in the physical world; she’s gotten used to the pinch from stuffing them into her physical form.

The wings of angels are often indistinguishable from the wings of demons. Not because of uniformity: rather, because they have the same control over them that they do over the rest of their physical bodies, and can make them look however they like. Crowley, for example, has black wings, because Crowley would like to have black wings. Likewise, Aziraphale has white wings because he thinks they look rather charming alongside his hair.

Beelzebub’s wings are white, too, with black feathers at the base. White isn’t a particularly fashionable wing color in hell, but she likes them, and she has her reasons.

The sun is nearly set, now. She can see perfectly well in the dark, of course, but she lets her vision dim anyway until the world is a soft haze of artificial light as the last rays of the sun fade away and the glow of the city now dominates. She spares a glance upward, then, and sees nothing: no stars, not with the bright city down below.

Light pollution. Crowley had explained it once. No stars in the sky, no beauty of the heavens above.

No wonder Pollution was promoted to one of the Four. If this was just what they did with  _ light… _

She feels the presence before it’s there, and then a soft, awe-struck voice says, “You kept them…”

Her wings vanish with a snap. Gabriel steps up beside her.

“Thought you were going Downstairs to put the fear of you into the Council.”

“I did. And then I came back up to get some air.” She casts him a sidelong glance, and adds, “I spoke with my lord about your involvement in the wedding.”

“Ah.” The temperature drops somewhat, but other than that he offers no other word. “I imagine he was… not pleased?”

“Actually, he thought it waz funny. And he called you a prat.” And wanted to know if he’d gotten more interesting in the intervening time since the Fall, but she doesn’t tell him that part.

“Crowley thought it was funny, too,” he says, scuffing one foot idly. “I confess I can’t really see the punchline.”

“Really?” She turns to face him, finally, raising one eyebrow. “The great Archangel Gabriel banished from heaven and you can’t see why some of us might get a  _ laugh _ out of that?”

“I haven’t been  _ banished, _ I’m just. Doing a job. Obviously the Almighty feels that I can do it more efficiently if I remain on earth for the duration.”

“There’s a whole world of difference between ‘stay on earth to finish the job’ and ‘don’t come back until you do’,” she points out. “Which one were you told?”

He says nothing immediately, staring out at the dark, empty sky. His fingers twitch at his sides, and then he rolls his shoulders back and straightens his posture slightly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally says. “I was given orders, and those orders included remaining on earth for the duration. Reading anything deeper into that would be- well it would tantamount to asking  _ questions, _ and one does not  _ question _ the decisions of the Almighty. That way leads to damnation,” he adds, casting an askance look at her.

She shrugs. “Damnation’s not so bad once you get used to it. Better than the alternative, at least.”

“I’ve seen what you lot have going on down there. I don’t see how it’s  _ better.” _

“More interesting, anyway.”

Gabriel turns a look at her, and his jaws aches with a question he daren’t ask.

It is well-known that the Archangel Gabriel is not one to ask Questions. Regular questions, sure, fine: inquiries do need to be made, after all, for the sake of communication. But to ask Questions is not in his nature: even in his most private, deep-down thoughts, he does not Question. To Question would be the first step to a long walk off a short path and then a plunge, straight Down.

This was true even before the rebellion, and after it doubly so: he has witnessed what happens to angels who Question. He has  _ been _ what happens to angels who Question.

But even so, for the past eons- for six thousand years and an immeasurable time Before- ever since the Fall, a Question has burned at the back of his throat, begging to be asked.

_ Why did you Fall? _ he doesn’t ask.  _ Why did you rebel, why did you choose  _ **_him_ ** _ , why did you turn your back on our creator, on heaven?  _ **_Why did you leave me_ ** _? _

The Question burns in him now, demanding, and he shunts it back into the deepest depths of his soul to be ignored and instead says, “Is it really better than what you had before?”

Even that feels too close to the truth, and he’s unsurprised at the glare she gives him.

“I waz created to be a pawn,” she says, after such a long time that Gabriel wonders if she’s going to answer at all. “I waz alwayz going to  _ be _ a pawn, regardlezz of szide.” She sneers. “ _ Szatan _ never azked me to be  _ happy _ about it.”

“We are not  _ pawns,” _ he snaps. “God does not play games with the universe. There is a  _ Plan, _ and we all have our roles to play, but that doesn’t make it a  _ game _ and that doesn’t make us  _ pawns.” _

“You’re the only one who really believez that,” she murmurs, and the concrete beneath her feet boils and smoulders and opens up in a small circle of brimstone that swallows her into it.

-/-

[1- Grooming is usually done on the ethereal plane, which offers a bit of privacy and breathing room. This is why demon wings always appear so much better groomed than angel wings: angels only groom the physical echoes that manifest in the material world. It has its effects.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're gonna have to finish a conversation with him one of these days, Beelz.
> 
> [Beelzebub's wings](https://kripalu.org/sites/default/files/styles/resource_header/public/WhiteCranesGettyImages-684977598.gif?itok=i24RNZHn).
> 
> "The wings of demons are indistinguishable from the wings of angels" + "Crowley has black wings because Crowley would like to have black wings" I take to mean that they can change their wing color at will, same as any other aspect of their physical forms. (Their truest forms are a little more difficult to work with, but more on that in a later chapter.) This, to me, seems far more interesting than some boring good/evil = white/black dichotomy, and has far more potential to communicate about the characters and their motives and their relationship with their divinity (or lack thereof). (Read as: this is gonna come up again.)
> 
> There are a lot of fashions about wing color among both angels and demons, and among demons it's popular fashion to imitate the fashions of angels in a mocking way. The most persistent and consistent fashion is black, dark greys, and sickly greens and yellows for demons, with white, light greys, and soft tans and gold for angels. Neither side wear red, for the same reason in opposite directions, due to red wings having an association with Lucifer.
> 
> Fun fact: rather than Aziraphale and Crowley having white + black wings as a result of being good and evil, good and evil are associated with white and black, respectively, _because_ of something deeply ingrained in Adam and Eve's descendants: the black scales of the Serpent of Eden and the white wings of the Principality who watched over them are a genetic memory that lead to our associations now. Black being the fashion for demons came later. (Crowley had black wings before it was cool to have black wings, and is a massive hipster about this fact.)
> 
> Gabriel's reasoning and his behavior are very difficult to make clear when he _refuses_ to be introspective enough for me to explain them, but lest you think I'm writing ooc, I'll explain at least for now that a lot of his behavior is tied up in a specific moral code that is based in obedience as the strongest tenet, and leave it at that, as well as a hint that the Fall was still traumatic for those who didn't Fall themselves.


	6. Light Another Cigarette And Let Yourself Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding planners finally have a date to work within. Too soon? Should have been there for the choosing, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -kicks down door- I’m back babye
> 
> Show of hands who thought I’d give up on this piece? Anyway, insert usual remarks about work kicking my ass, etc, you know the drill. Bear with me as I try to remember how to write this story; I didn’t expect to take two weeks to finish the Labyrinth au once everything else was backburnered.
> 
> Also, gonna be trying something a little different with my pacing and chapter lengths, so maybe I won’t stress myself so much about updates. Can I get a wahoo?

-/-

Beelzebub and Gabriel give it two more days of faffing about before making a silent agreement take the happy couple in hand and do some _actual_ planning. They arrive at the shop at eight o’clock sharp, and find Aziraphale alone in the front room. The shop is, for a given value of the word, open, but the place is abandoned, and Aziraphale is leaning over one of the various plants that dots the room.

“You’re growing _marvelously,”_ they overhear as they come in. “I’m sure he’ll be _very_ proud of you.”

The two exchange a glance packed with judgment, and Gabriel says, “Aziraphale, are you _talking_ to that plant?”

“Of course I am,” he says, refusing to be even a little bit embarrassed. “They respond to being spoken to, and they could use a little kindness. Crowley will insist on putting the fear of, well, Crowley in them.”

As if on cue, they hear a thump from the backroom, followed by muffled swearing. Aziraphale doesn’t even look up.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” he murmurs, and reaches over to stroke one stalk reassuringly- the plant had started trembling. “There, there, it’s all right.”

“Angel,” Crowley says from the doorway, tongue half-sticking to the roof of his mouth groggily. He looks rumpled and sleep-addled, and he’s still wearing the clothes they saw him in yesterday. “Are you spoiling my plants again?”

“Of course I am, dear, they need all the love and affection they can get.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and turns his gaze skyward in supplication, then spots the other two. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here this early?”

“We’re going venue shopping today,” Beelzebub says. “We can’t start making any real plans until we have a venue and a date to work with.”

“Oh,” Crowley repeats, because he’s still half asleep and his brain isn’t working on all cylinders yet. He smooths one hand down the front of his shirt and buries a yawn in his arm. “Why so early, though?”

“While I’m sure your display of Sloth is making hell proud-”

“It’sz not.”

“-we need to get an early start if we mean to actually get anything done. Humans like to end their day when it’s barely begun as it is.”

Crowley turns to Aziraphale, currently miracling the spots out of a fern hanging near the windows. “What do you think, angel? And stop healing them! They’ll never learn not to get them if you just make them go away as soon as they appear.”

“I think venue shopping sounds lovely, and there’s no harm in a bit of pampering, so just hush. You pamper the ones in the bedroom, after all.” [1]

“That’s because the ones in the bedroom have _earned_ it.”

[1- Aziraphale has gifted Crowley with many houseplants over the decades since Crowley started collecting them. Since he can’t exactly put the fear of Crowley into a gift from Aziraphale, these plants live in pride of place in Crowley’s- and now Crowley and Aziraphale’s- bedroom, and they’re the most spoiled, pampered plants in all existence. Not that Crowley will ever admit that to Aziraphale, of course.]

Aziraphale just ‘tuts’ at that, and comes over to join the conversation properly. “As to venue shopping, as most of our human guest list are in Tadfield, we should probably start in the area, if not Tadfield itself. And it has been a few weeks since we saw the children.”

“All right, all right.” Crowley yawns once more, then with a vague flick of his hand his rumpled clothing is replaced with something nearly identical that doesn’t have wrinkles. He glances down at himself, decides he’s satisfied, and then scowls. “Hang on, how are you two getting there? You haven’t earned the right to ride in my car yet.”

They exchange another of those infuriatingly judgy looks, the sort they tend to make more and more lately, and Gabriel says, “We can teleport?”

“We can teleport,” Crowley repeats, and then, horror slowly dawning on his face, _“We can teleport.”_

“Did you forget?” Aziraphale asks. “I thought you’d decided we were going to drive everywhere because you like driving.”

“I love driving,” Crowley waves the remark away. “But _no,_ I just mean. At Armageddon’t. I took the Bentley through the hellfire, I completely destroyed it, and for what? I could have teleported!”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, realization making its way into his face as well. He makes a strangled sort of noise and breathes, _“We can teleport.”_

Beelzebub sighs. “Sometimes I wonder how you two managed to cause us so much trouble,” and in a wink, the pair have vanished.

“I don’t believe it,” Crowley says, ignoring them. “Ninety years without a scratch and I destroyed my car when I could have just teleported. And now underneath the miracle is just a smoldering wreck.”

Aziraphale nods. “True. And you’ll always know that- but you’ll also always know that the reason the miracle was performed is because of how much Adam loves you, enough to restore something precious to its previous state just for your happiness.”

For the second time in just a few minutes- and far too early in the day to be having revelations of any kind- Crowley is struck by a hindsight realization. He smacks his forehead with one palm, and then throws his other arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“All right, come on, angel, let’s go get breakfast. I don’t know if I can handle anymore revelations before I’ve had some coffee.”

-/-

Beelzebub and Gabriel materialize in Tadfield in a trice, and then in a few more minutes realize that their companions have not followed them. Beelzebub sighs.

“They’re going to insist on driving, aren’t they?”

“They really have gone native.”

They walk down the streets of Tadfield, wondering if there’s anywhere in the town that will suit the purpose of the wedding they’re planning while they wait for the other pair to arrive. They spot an ice cream parlor and go in; Beelzebub orders an ice cream soda and sits sipping it across from Gabriel, who orders nothing.

Silence reigns for awhile; Beelzebub seems perfectly content to sip her soda, while Gabriel has nothing better to do than to watch her. Were she anyone else, it might make her self-conscious— as it is, she ignores him, because one doesn’t get to be the prince of hell by being self-conscious about being watched.

Once she’s drained her glass, she smacks her lips and sits back in her seat, sagging and slouching until she’s seated as incorrectly as a booth will allow, and says, “I do not get to the surface often enough.”

“Oh?”

“So many earthly pleasures I never let myself indulge in. I’m the Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, I should be allowed to come to earth whenever I like and get an ice cream.”

He makes a disapproving ‘hm’ at that, but she ignores him. As far as she’s concerned, heavenly disapproval just means she’s doing her job well. Instead she gets up and leaves, hands shoved into her pockets while she waits for him to catch up. He does, a few minutes later, shoving a billfold back into his suit that she knows is going to vanish as soon as it’s out of sight.

“Why do you keep paying all of our tabs?”

“Because services rendered should be compensated.”

She snorts. She’d always suspected Capitalism was one of theirs.

“It’s what _Good_ people do. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

For just a moment she considers being insulted, and then replays his tone in her head and realizes: no, he’d only meant it as a general statement. She makes a mocking noise anyway. She _is_ still prince of hell, after all.

They end up on a park bench to wait, and are still there two hours later when Aziraphale and Crowley arrive, Crowley throwing the Bentley rather haphazardly into a parking spot that wasn’t there a moment ago. The pair are holding hands by the time they clear the fifteen or twenty yards between them and their bosses.

“Hope we didn’t keep you,” Crowley lies.

“Can’t be helped, if you’ve forgotten how to teleport,” Beelzebub shrugs, the dig coming almost automatically. “Well? You two are the ones who suggested this town. Is there anywhere here that can be suited to our purposes?”

“We’re not certain, but we’ve enlisted the aid of one of the locals to advise us,” Aziraphale says, and, “Ah! Speak of the- well- here she comes now.”

Approaching them from the opposite direction is a human they very vaguely recognize as one of those who were at the airfield that day. When she reaches them, she looks first Beelzebub and then Gabriel over briefly and says, “Oh, these two. Nice to see you again.”

Gabriel gestures at her, addressing Aziraphale. “Who’s this?”

“Of course, you haven’t been formally introduced,” Aziraphale begins, and then a grin of pure demonic mischief flashes across Crowley’s face and he stills Aziraphale’s words with a touch to his arm.

“Lord Beelzebub, Gabriel, allow me to introduce to you our good friend, Anathema Device, Occultist and professional descendent.”

“Retired,” Anathema says, holding out a hand.

Crowley goes on with, “Anathema, these are our former bosses- the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, and Lord Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies, and Consort… to _witches.”_

This last is drawn out in a meaningful way and Beelzebub catches the glint of mischief in his eyes at the word, at the way Anathema nearly, but doesn’t, squeak ‘consort?’. _Ah._ She sticks her hand out and catches Anathema’s eyes as she shakes it in greeting.

“You are a _professional descendent_ of witches, I take it?”

“Yes?” Anathema looks from Beelzebub to Crowley, a desperate question in her eyes.

“She’s the great-so-many-times granddaughter of Agnes Nutter,” he supplies.

“Agnes Nutter,” Beelzebub repeats, entirely faking the fond tone to her voice. Agnes wasn’t one of hers, but she’ll be damned all over if she isn’t going to take the opportunity to mess with a human if it’s dropped in her lap. “It’zz nize to meet you, Anathhhema. I like to know my witchezz’ linezz are keeping well.”

She lets a suggestion rest in her words. ‘Consort’ has lots of meanings, and if this woman is a witch worth her salt- pardon, an ‘occultist’- then she’ll know that. But that isn’t going to stop her wondering _which_ meaning is the one that applies.

-/-

According to Anathema, the only place in Tadfield to hold large events the like that they’re planning is Tadfield Manor. Crowley refuses immediately, stating that he has nothing but terrible memories of the place, and Aziraphale gives him a sly look and says, “Oh? Because I have one or two fond ones, in fact.”

Crowley’s face turns as red as his hair at that, and he’s much more agreeable after.

Beelzebub scowls after the angel as the four bid farewell to Anathema and set off for the Manor. [1] It’s disgusting to look at, the way he moons over that angel, the way the angel wraps him so expertly around his fingers.

(Actually, that she approves of. If Aziraphale were one of her demons, he’d be an expert tempter, the sort who could get scores of humans to fawn over him and do anything he asked with just a bat of his eyelashes. There’s a part of her that’s almost disappointed she got stuck with Crowley instead, envious of Gabriel, who doesn’t realize what a treasure he once had. She also suspects she’s starting to fall for the angel’s charms and sweet smiles, all undercut with an edge of fury, and scowls harder.)

Crowley falls into step beside her and drops his voice low before saying, “With Anathema back there- how much of that was just affectation? Did you know Agnes?”

“Never heard of her. Not everyone accused of witchcraft was a witch, though.”

“Agnes was,” he says. “Real deal- you’ll have to get Aziraphale to tell you more, or Anathema, they’re the experts. Was just wondering if she was one of yours.”

“If she was the real deal, I would have known her.”

“Want to hear how she died?” And without giving her the chance to answer, he launches into an account of Agnes Nutter’s death by firey explosion. Her eyebrows climb, thoroughly impressed.

“She was the real deal all right. Why didn’t I know about her? I should have been able to zensze her!”

“Perhaps she was hiding?”

“Zhe would not have been able to hide herzelf, not from me!” She’s seething now, and shudders to quell the angry buzzing. It’s been centuries- it’s not like she can change things. But it’s been _centuries_ since all of her witches died- _her_ witches, not these modern day variants- and that time had been so much _fun._

Crowley is worrying at his lip, gaze somewhere in the distance.

“So you couldn’t sense her, then?” And adds, more quietly, “And Aziraphale couldn’t either.”

“What?”

He gestures at Aziraphale. “She was a Prophet. They’re a hobby of his.” He sighs, and presses a hand to his mouth in thought. She thinks she hears him mutter something that sounds like “Ineffable fucking plan,” and then he shakes his head and catches up with Aziraphale. He leans down to whisper something to his fiance, who gives him a smug look and laughs.

Beelzebub _seethes._

-/-

 

> [1- She takes great care that her own farewell lingers, that she lets the hint of a smile touch her features as she turns away.]

-/-

The walk to Tadfield Manor is much shorter than it would otherwise be, if they weren’t four infernal and ethereal beings. At the gates, Aziraphale and Crowley peek around the corner, look for something that appears to be absent, then visibly relax.

“Actually I’m a little disappointed,” Crowley admits, as they reach the doors and head inside. “I was looking forward to seeing Gabe here get shot with paintballs.”

Aziraphale chides him automatically, but there’s no true impact behind it beyond a general reminder not to antagonize the Archangel, and he’s more distracted looking for Ms. Hodges anyway. They hadn’t exactly ended up in her office before- what with Crowley’s little tantrum distracting them- but he can sense life in this general direction, and follows his gut, so to speak.

Beside him, Gabriel rests his hands in his jacket pocket and lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Someone really loves this place.”

“Right?” Aziraphale feels something loosen in his chest. “It’s all over the building, the grounds- the place practically oozes love!”

“This place used to be a Satanist convent,” Crowley reminds him. “Why would anyone love it so much a couple angels can sense it?”

Aziraphale hrumphs. “The young woman who runs this place was one of the nuns here, if you’ll recall.”

“They’re _Satanists,_ angel. Satanist _nuns._ Love isn’t exactly in the job description.”

“It’s not in the job description of demons, either,” Aziraphale reminds him, and senses a life approaching. “Ah, and here she comes now. Good afternoon, madame.”

“Hello, sir,” she says, and then her eyes slide to Crowley and she takes a hasty step back. “Master Crowley!”

“Hi, Sister.”

“We’d like to talk to you about using this facility for a wedding in- oh- I don’t know, Crowley, when do we want to actually have this wedding?”

Crowley shrugs, hems and haws a little, and says, “Late summer?”

“Oh, perfect. Do you have some time open in late summer?”

“Certainly. Why don’t you come to my office and we’ll talk?”

She gestures down the corridor, and for a moment Aziraphale moves to follow, but Crowley’s hand in his holds him back. He gives Crowley a questioning look, and at Crowley’s expression, gives a fond eyeroll that he knows Crowely will take as acquiescence.

“Ms. Hodges,” Crowley calls, and the woman stops, turning back to them. “Why don’t you work things out with our wedding planners? Gabriel,” he nods to the Archangel, and then to his own boss, “And _Lord Beelzebub.”_

Only a former Satanist nun could look _starstruck_ on seeing Beelzebub in front of her, and Crowley takes advantage of her distraction to vanish himself and Aziraphale, reappearing beside the Bentley. He laughs, leans against his car and beams at Aziraphale, who tries to look stern and utterly fails before leaning against his fiance, pressing him neatly against the car and finding his other hand to hold as well.

“That was _mean,_ dearest,” he says, not even pretending to mean his scolding.

“She was part of a chattering order, angel,” Crowley reminds him. “Besides, Gabe and Beelzebub are way more interested in all of this than we are, let them have all the fun.”

“Fun,” Aziraphale says drily, but his attempt to the moral highground is completely lost as he rests his hands on Crowley’s waist and pushes up on tiptoes for a kiss that Crowley gladly indulges him in.

 _“Fun,”_ he hisses gleefully.

-/-

By the time Beelzebub and Gabriel are freed from Mary Hodges endless, starstruck chatter and return to the couple, they’re in the park with the Antichrist and the three other children from the airfield. Crowley is wearing one of them as a backpack; Aziraphale is showing the other three the correct way to hold the foam swords they’re all carrying. [2]

“They’re not real, of course, but if they were you’d have sliced off your own foot by now,” he’s explaining, while he adjusts the girl-child’s hands just so. “There, now the elbow-“

“So you do still know how to wield a sword,” Gabriel says, as they join the group.

Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s like riding a velocipede, you never forget- besides, they’re just children playing about with toys. They have no desire for the real thing, fortunately.”

“Fortunately,” Gabriel echoes, recalling the day that these four children had made it very clear they had no desire for war of any kind.

“You’re the people from the airfield,” says the one on Crowley’s back. “I remember you. You were very rude to Adam.”

“I was not.”

“You called him a brat,” the girl-child says. “And you sicced Satan on him.”

“I did not. Beelzebub did.”

“You wanted them to,” the other boy points out.

Only Adam hasn’t weighed in at this point. He’s been watching the proceedings with a guarded eye, like he’s waiting for Archangel and Hell-prince to do something unsavory that he’ll need to intervene for. It’s making the back of Gabriel’s neck prickle; he’s nervous, for all that he doesn’t think he needs to be. It’s not like he’s here to hurt any of the children, or their self-proclaimed godparents.

“Are we family?” he says suddenly. Both of them turn to him.

“What?”

“I’ve been reading about angels and demons and stuff since everything that happened and people talk about the Archangels like they’re siblings and Satan was a Archangel ‘fore he Fell and you’re an Archangel so are we family?”

Beside him, the unmistakable buzz of Beelzebub’s laughter. His mouth clicks shut.

“That’s… that was a long time ago.”

“Thought you made it so He wasn’t your dad anyway,” Crowley reminds the kid. “There was that whole… thing.”

“Just cause he’s not my dad doesn’t mean I didn’t get my dna from him,” Adam shrugs. “He’s just not my _dad._ Not unless he wants to actually put in the work, but I think he’s too embarrassed to want to.”

“Is he going to be at the wedding?” the girl-child says, and all four adult-shaped beings shudder simultaneously.

“Pray that he doesn’t,” Crowley says darkly.

“I don’t think he could fit in the building anyway,” Crowley’s backpack says, which seems to be the final word on that.

-/-

> [2- Wensleydale, since Gabriel isn’t going to ask.]

-/-

“Your wedding is on the twenty-seventh of August,” Gabriel tells them, once the kids have gone home and the four are left in the park, idling before they have to return to London.

“Four months,” Aziraphale says. “That’s a very short engagement.”

“You’ve been together for six thousand years,” Gabriel reminds him.

“We haven’t been _planning a wedding_ for all of that time,” Aziraphale counters, and Crowley mutters something that sounds like _‘you haven’t’_ but doesn’t elaborate.

Gabriel shrugs. “If you wanted something longer, you should have stayed at the Manor with us.”

Crowley makes mimicking faces at that, and Gabriel glares at him. “If you’re going to act like a child-“ he begins, and Crowley cuts him off with a mocking, _“If you’re going to act like a child,”_ in response.

“Right. I’m leaving.”

He vanishes in a crackle of static and a whiff of ozone, and Crowley sprawls out on the bench, taking up his now-empty seat with one long leg, and looks over at Beelzebub.

“You’ve been awfully quiet over there.”

She snaps out of her quiet and looks over at him, mind obviously miles away. “What?”

“Just wondering. Everything all right?”

“Why do you care?”

He shrugs. She watches him unblinking for a long moment, and then turns back to staring off at the middle distance, sinking a little lower onto the bench.

“I misz the fifteenth czentury. You don’t get proper witchez theze dayz.”

“Oh, I dunno. You could probably scrounge some up if you went looking. Anathema could probably help you out. Being an old friend of her great-ancestor and all.”

Aziraphale tuts a little, but both demons are snickering now, and as it’s been awhile since Crowley has had a fellow demon to snicker about demonic mischief with, he says nothing more.

 

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wensleydale enjoys being a backpack.
> 
> Hoo boy okay lotta author’s notes on this here we go:
> 
> 1\. I have no idea whether Beelzebub has any connection to witches whatsoever in real demonology, I just have vague memories from my childhood of reading witch-hunt era stories that referred to witches dancing with Beelzebub and had an amusing thought of Beelzebub and Crowley messing with Anathema and it spiraled. I actually ended up with a lot of characterization choices based on it, which makes it even funnier to me since it literally was just so I could have Anathema trying to decide how to ask the prince of hell whether she fucked her great ancestor. If it goes against anything established, just assume whatever human came up with that got it wrong.
> 
> 2\. I don’t so much headcanon the angels and demons as not enjoying earth; rather, they all have their vices (Gabriel and his suits, for example), they just don’t think any of those are important or cool enough to avert an entire war. Beelz has many vices, ranging in scale from ice cream sodas to hanging out with witches, but she’s a busy guy and doesn’t get up to earth to indulge them often. Secretly she’s as much of a glutton as Aziraphale.
> 
> 3\. The thump was Crowley falling off of the couch, which he was sleeping on because Aziraphale was downstairs working all night and Crowley wanted to be near him while he slept. This is irrelevant, I just wasn’t sure how to include or clarify it, and thought it was too cute to leave out.
> 
> 4\. I think canon wanted us to believe that the flashes of Love Aziraphale was feeling were from Adam’s love for Tadfield and I think those were definitely amplifying something he wouldn’t have pinpointed otherwise, but the fact that this came up right before a really long explanation of why Mary Hodges was running a corporate retreat location or whatever, I choose to believe that the specific love Aziraphale was feeling was hers for the Manor, and Adam’s own love for Tadfield was amplifying all of the love in the area so that Aziraphale could get something he could focus on. So he was sensing both Adam’s and Mary’s, but in the moment it was Mary’s. If that makes sense. (Look I just love her okay? I love her. I can’t write her for shit but I love her so much.)
> 
> 5\. Crowley has been planning his wedding to Aziraphale for as long as he’s known what a wedding is you can’t change my mind.


	7. Till The Mountains Crumble Into The Plain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is at least one place on earth where Gabriel isn’t a prick. Imagine that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who fucked his bluetooth keyboard too :D
> 
> The character Gabriel talks to in the second scene has been facecast as Catherine Tate. You can picture anyone else you like in the role if you want, but that’s who I was imagining when I wrote the scene.

-/-

Breakfast this morning is a nice little cafe that’s just far enough away to drive instead of walking, which Crowley approves of. They sit at a table in the corner, Crowley picking at his food while he watches Aziraphale eat methodically, his usual adoring gaze in place.

Aziraphale looks up and spots him, and his expression softens into one of equal adoration. He rests a hand over Crowley’s on the table, and says, “Oh my dearest. I do love nothing in the world so well as you.”

Crowley only just avoids letting out an embarrassing whimper at that, and shifts around as his chair has suddenly become rather unbalanced, or maybe that’s just him- one would think after six thousand years of pining Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to pull the rug out from under him so neatly and yet, and yet.

He turns his hand to lace their fingers together. “It were as possible for me to say I love nothing so well as  _ you.” _

The whole thing is disgustingly soppy, and Crowley feels the by-now familiar gut feeling of what anyone else in hell would say if they could see. He quashes it down, because it doesn’t matter, his union is by their lord’s will and no one in hell can keep them apart now, and he has just enough time to think  _ let them see, what do I care? _ before Beelzebub appears in the doorway.

He only avoids snatching his hand away on instinct because Aziraphale tightens his grip, turning his smile to Beelzebub.

“Good morning. Care to join us?”

She buzzes a grumpy affirmative and takes the seat offered, folding her arms and pillowing her head on the table and groaning.

“Crowley,” she says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument or refusal, “Go get me a black coffee and a scone. And a bowl of sugar water,” she adds, as an afterthought.

Crowley stands automatically, and then, to save face says, “You know you can just  _ ask _ if you want a favor. Want anything while I’m up, angel?”

“Oh, yes, another of these  _ lovely _ croissants, if you please.”

He gives his fiance a set of doe eyes to accompany his request, and Crowley slouches up to the front to collect their orders, leaving Aziraphale and Beelzebub at the table. Aziraphale returns to pulling apart the croissant he’s currently working on, and Beelzebub lifts her head to watch him.

“You know, I didn’t believe it when Dagon told me you and Crowley must have been swapping places,” she says, trying to strike a conversational tone. Aziraphale is  _ fascinating _ for her.

“Swapping places?” he says, a touch of panic in his tone, and he shoots a desperate look to Crowley’s back, “What- what do you mean?”

“You and Crowley. Swapping places so you can do his temptations. Dagon went through the files and realized and I didn’t believe it would be possible.”

“Oh. That.” he relaxes a little. Hmm. “The Arrangement, yes. Not so much swapping places, you see, more that we didn’t see much reason in  _ both _ of us going somewhere if one could do both jobs and save the other a bit of trouble. The net result was the same, and we got to spend more time- well, doing as we liked.”

“Whatever you call it, I didn’t think it was possible for an angel to accomplish temptation before I spent time with you.”

“And you’ve since concluded otherwise?”

“I think you’re definitely better suited to temptations than Crowley ever was.”

“Not at all!” he says, affronted. “Crowley is  _ very _ good at his job, your people just don’t know how to recognize his genius for what it is.”

“Hiz idea of evil is inconvenienczing people in little ways on a mass scale.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, as though she’s just dug the grave for her own argument. “Millions of people, every day, being just annoyed enough to take out their ill moods on each other but  _ not _ enough for anyone, human or angel, to think to step in to balance the scales. Just a little bit of a patina on their souls; a fine coating of dust that goes unnoticed until one day you look and their soul is covered in grime and mold. It’s not possible to inspire Good on the same scale that Crowley is able to inspire Evil, at least not consistently- even I struggle to keep up, and I know his methods. No, I think you’ll find that Crowley is  _ far _ better suited to temptations than I could ever be. Perhaps I have some skill on a  _ personal _ level, but I could never do Crowley’s job for  _ real.” _

Beelzebub stares at him. He means it- she’d assumed he was biased, but no, he’s being sincere. He really believes Crowley is better at putting Evil into the world and  _ keeping it there _ than hell has ever given him credit for.

_ Most of hell, _ she amends, remembering all the times she’s had to listen to Satan gushing about what a _ genius _ Crowley is.

Crowley chooses that moment to return with their orders; Beelzebub takes the large fly off of her head and sets it beside the requested bowl of sugar water, where it bursts into a swarm and descends on the surface, draining all of it in a matter of seconds before settling back on her head and reforming.

None of the other patrons notice, of course. It isn’t possible for a charmingly fly-shaped hat to turn into a swarm of flies and down an entire bowl of sugar water, so obviously it didn’t happen.

Crowley peels off a bit of Aziraphale’s croissant and passes the rest back to him. “Wasn’t Gabe supposed to be meeting us?”

-/-

In the park, a woman stands on a corner and plays the violin to a cluster of ducklings that surround her feet. Her hair is a brilliant flame-gold shade of red, braided in a crown around her head, and she’s dressed in a tailcoat paired with jeans and a low-cut tank top, feet bare, eyes closed as she plays.

Gabriel stands in front of her, hands resting casually in his pocket while he watches, and after a long time of this, she speaks, still not opening her eyes.

“Heard you got grounded.”

“I was given a job to do and asked to remain on earth until it’s done,” he corrects. “I suppose Beelzebub told you?”

“Naturally. He tells me everything.”

“Naturally,” Gabriel echoes, and frowns. “I didn’t know you played the violin.”

“Where I learned they called it a fiddle,” she says, still playing. He looks down at the ducklings. They’re seated around her feet, all enraptured by her playing. It’s a far cry from what he would expect from a usually much more aggressive creature.

“You learned? You’re not using magic?”

“You can’t use magic to make music. Music is its own kind of magic, you can’t take shortcuts. Learned that one the hard way,” she adds, a scowl twisting her mouth.

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it _ look _ like I’m doing here?”

“Busking?”

“Playing. Don’t get to play in hell much, ruins my image. And then my demons start trying to dance and it’s all just really embarrassing.”

He frowns, the image of Beelzebub dancing flashing through his mind, and then banishes the thought before it can fully form.

“I see,” and after a few more measures, “But what  _ are _ you doing here?”

She opens her eyes and gives him a toothy grin around a mouthful of fangs, finally pausing her playing.

“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

He  _ does, _ he was supposed to meet up with the others nearly ten minutes ago. He huffs and glares back at her as he takes off- it’s not much of a prank, but she knows how much he likes punctuality.

-/-

They’ve finished off their breakfasts by the time Gabriel joins them.

“Did you know your boss plays the violin?” he asks the two demons as he takes his seat.

“Yes,” they say, more or less in unison, and Beelzebub adds, “He plays for the court sometimes, when he’s in the mood for an audience.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to say ‘that’s not what he told me’, thinks through what he’s about to say, and closes his mouth again, leaning back a little in his chair. “I made an appointment with my tailor today,” he says instead. “I thought we could go ahead and get your wedding attire taken care of.”

Aziraphale sips down the last of his cocoa and says, “You get your clothes done at Much Ado About Clothing, right?”

“Why do you need to get your clothes tailored?” Beelzebub asks. “Can’t you just miracle up whatever you want on the day?”

Crowley looks in agreement, but Aziraphale just gives him an affronted look. “I do have  _ standards, _ Lord Beelzebub. No, my suit  _ must _ be made properly, miracled clothing just never  _ fits _ quite right.”

“It literally fits  _ miraculously _ well,” she protests, and, “Ugh, angels,” while Crowley nods his agreement and Aziraphale and Gabriel leave no room for argument.

-/-

Gabriel has been getting his suits tailored at Much Ado About Clothing for almost three centuries- the name is only from the past decade, since the newest proprietor had taken over- and when he leads the party into the brightly lit building that is the only place on earth he actually likes, a middle-aged man in a lavender waistcoat behind the counter almost lights up in delight before schooling his face into something more professional.

“Mr. Arc,” he says, coming over to join them. “Lovely to meet you all, I’m Jack D’Arcy, I’ll be taking on your order.”

Gabriel takes the hand being held out to him, and gestures at the others. He looks in a much better mood than they’ve seen him yet. “Jack, hi. This is Aziraphale, Crowley- the couple in question- and my partner in wedding plans, Bells-“

Crowley gives him a mistrustful frown while they shake hands all around. He’s not sure how he feels about anyone who looks  _ happy _ to see Gabriel, and he doesn’t think he’s ever _ actually _ seen Gabriel happy at all. On the other hand, Gabriel  _ does _ always look impeccably dressed, and if this is the guy who’s been dressing him, then he’ll give him a chance, if only to please Aziraphale’s sartorial standards for their day.

Jack calls into the shop for ‘Thad’ to watch the front, and leads them into the backroom, where two rather hefty binders are lying on a desk in the midst of half-completed orders and various materials and tools of the trade. 

“Right,” he says, gesturing them into chairs while he takes his own seat. “So, you guys have any ideas for what you want, or are we starting from scratch here?”

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, and, at a shrug from his fiance, says, “I’m afraid I haven’t given it any thought. I’m hopelessly out of date when it comes to fashion.”

“By which you mean, you haven’t updated your sense of fashion since the nineteen-forties,” Crowley adds, and gestures at his own clothing. “I’m a little more up-to-date, but I don’t do formal very often.”

Contrary to what they’re expecting, Jack grins. “Fashionable is boring. It’s your wedding, my dudes, you should be wearing something you’re happy and comfortable in- I can do any era or culture you choose, and the more esoteric, the more interesting the job.”

They exchange another look.  _ “Any _ era or culture?”

“If I’ve never made it before, I’m happy to start with you guys. I’m a quick study.” He pushes one of his binders, the smaller one, toward them. “I call this one my interesting binder. It’s the one with all the fun jobs I’ve gotten to do over the years.”

“Is Gabe in it anywhere?” Crowley asks, flipping through to random pages. “Look at this one, angel-“

“Mr. Arc won’t let me make anything interesting for him,” Jack says, while Aziraphale leans over to look at the Rococo-themed wedding party Crowley is showing him.

“Sounds about right.”

“So!” Jack says, after a few minutes. “Since you don’t have any ideas, let’s brainstorm. Tell me about yourselves as a couple- what was your first date?”

“Rome,” Aziraphale says fondly, at the same time Crowley says, “That would be Paris.”

They both turn to stare at each other. Jack grins and leans back in his seat.

_ “Rome, _ angel?” Crowley says, astonished. “You think our first date was  _ Rome?” _

“Of course it was Rome! I took you out for oysters, you  _ must _ remember!”

“That wasn’t a  _ date, _ that was  _ lunch.” _

“Lunch!” Aziraphale huffs, affronted. “How did you  _ not _ realize it was a date?”

“You never _ said,” _ Crowley protests.

“I couldn’t, could I? I was risking enough just having lunch with you at all- if any of our- well, you know. If we’d been  _ seen…” _ He trails off, and Crowley glares briefly at Gabriel on instinct.

“Right, yeah. But still. I didn’t even think you were interested back then.”

“Oh,  _ Crowley,” _ Aziraphale sighs, reaching over to rest a hand over his. “I was always interested. From the very Beginning, I think.”

“Why didn’t you  _ say _ anything, then?”

“I did. I said,  _ slow down, wait for me, I’m not ready, I’ll catch up, just slow down and wait for me. _ And you did.”

“Course I waited. Would have waited another six thousand years if you’d needed me to.”

Jack lets out a soft little  _ aww _ at his declaration, drawing them back to the conversation at hand. Aziraphale tightens his hand on Crowley’s and looks away, embarrassed, only for his eyes to land on Gabriel, who is staring at the ceiling, annoyed.

“We should have recalled you as soon as you gave away your sword,” he sighs. Behind the desk, Jack frowns, glancing uncomfortably from him to the happy couple.

“Right,” he says hesitantly, “So. You said something about Paris?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, and grins back over at Crowley. “I’d gotten into a spot of bother, you see, and Crowley positively _ swooped _ in to rescue me.”

“You could have gotten yourself out of it  _ very easily _ if you’d wanted, angel.”

“Possibly, but that doesn’t change the fact that you dashed in to save me the inconvenience. And then we went for crepes.”

“And a brioche,” Crowley murmurs, and Beelzebub makes a disgusted noise.

“I cannot _ believe _ you were  _ sneaking around _ all this time-“

“Hey, come on,” Jack says, discomfort growing. “Not in my shop. Or at all, ideally.”

“What?” she asks, and Crowley’s eyes go wide.

_ “Oh, right. _ You would think that…”

“You must understand, Mr. D’Arcy-“

“Jack. Just Jack.”

“-our, our  _ families _ rather detest each other. We’re meant to loathe each other, and the fact that we _ don’ _ t is a bit of a thorn in their collective sides.”

Jack looks between them all, taking in Gabriel and Beelzebub’s confused expressions, and Crowley says, “We’re basically Romeo and Juliet, except Tybalt and Mercutio are planning the wedding instead of stabbing each other.”

“All right…”

“Trust me,” Crowley goes on, “What you think is happening here is not even in the  _ realm _ of being a thing. I’ll explain later,” he adds, when Beelzebub starts to speak. She glares at him, but relents.

Jack still seems dubious, but he, too, relents, and they’re able to return to the relevant topic soon enough.

-/-

“Two thousand years!” Crowley says, once Jack has been summoned away to speak with another client, and the group are alone for a bit. “I’ve been waiting around trying not to go too fast for you and you think we’ve been dating for the past two millennia!”

“Well what was I supposed to think, dear? I even used your line, I thought you understood what I was asking! You even gave me an opening, how were we  _ not _ on the same page for that conversation?”

“I didn’t even know you  _ liked _ me at the time! Anyway, if you reckon we’ve been dating all this time, what was all that at the church? I could practically  _ hear _ the violins going off in your head, I thought that was the moment for you.”

“Oh, my  _ dear,” _ Aziraphale reaches over to cup his jaw. “That was the moment I knew you love  _ me.” _

“What? It took you _ that _ long to figure out?”

“Well of course I knew you had  _ feelings _ for me before that- you were never particularly subtle, you know. But I never knew how deeply they ran- until that moment.”

“Right, the books,” Crowley nods.

“I think we’ll need to sit down and work out our timeline together,” Aziraphale says. “Obviously we’ve been operating under different assumptions for far too long.”

“Why do I get the feeling you two just nearly lost me my tailor?” Gabriel asks, before they can start reminiscing properly. Crowley snickers.

“You’re the one who was acting disgusted over a queer wedding in an openly gay man’s shop, Gabe, you only have yourself to blame.” He grins cheekily. “Speaking of which, you didn’t tell us you were bringing us here to meet your _ boyfriend. _ You should have said. I’d have brought wine.”

“What?”

“Crowley, don’t  _ tease,” _   Aziraphale scolds, and, “I’m sure it took a lot of nerve for Gabriel to introduce us to his beau like that, we should be supportive.”

_ “What?” _

“Your tailor has the hots for you,” Beelzebub clarifies, when Crowley snickers. “Though I can’t imagine why.”

“Because I’m weak for a pretty face,” Jack says, choosing that moment to rejoin them. “Sorry about that, one of my clients is planning his gender reveal party and I always take these cases on personally.”

“Not a problem at all,” Aziraphale assures him, while Jack glances at Gabriel, who is now shifting uncomfortably.

“Right,” he mutters, and turns back to the couple in question. “You guys think of anything while I was out?”

“It seems we need to take a look at our personal timeline together,” Aziraphale says. “We’ve had many meetings over the years that one or both of us might think of as dates, but we don’t actually agree on which ones are which.”

“There is one moment we can agree on,” Crowley says. “The day we met?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says softly. “Side by side on the Garden wall, looking out over the desert together.”

“It rained,” Crowley adds softly, “and you sheltered me like it was the most obvious thing in the world.”

This time, Jack has the sense not to interrupt their moment, and they’re allowed the soft, adoring looks as their minds take them back to that day over six thousand years ago. After a few seconds, their attention drifts back to the present and their meeting, and over to the tailor, who looks like he’s about to melt.

“I,” he says, “am  _ very much _ looking forward to this job.”

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who remember The Trial Of Jack D’Arcy, yes, this is the same guy. Why do all my ocs have worse taste in men than I do?
> 
> For the record regarding pronouns, since I’ve updated my headcanons and meta, Gabriel uses whatever pronouns are traditionally associated with the corporation being used at the moment, most recently, or for the time he’s flashing back to. Satan exclusively refers to demons and angels in the masculine, partly because when Crowley took credit for the patriarchy he was tickled by the idea of defaulting everything to male and erasing the contributions of half the population, partly because his demons change their corporations often- often on an eternal scale, anyway- and he’s not going to keep track of who’s wearing what gender today, so to speak. The evil of this would be far more present if anyone, you know, cared enough about gender to have a preference.


	8. One Wave Short Of A Shipwreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel asks the right questions, while Crowley answers a question I'm sure all of us have been wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: the meta I use to write how angels and demons approach gender has changed, and I've updated the section in chapter four that addresses this to match. The gist of the change mostly just removes any implication that either of them are making a concentrated effort to project a given gender identity; the net result is ultimately the same.
> 
> There are more oc's in this chapter! I used Jack originally because I needed an oc for that situation and, not wanting to go through the trouble of making a new character, used an oc I already had, and that ended up changing the entire scene drastically. It also made me realize that Gabriel's story arc is going to involve a lot of outside influence from humans, so you guys are gonna get to meet a LOT of my ocs over the next many chapters. (Also, I was wary of using him, so I was really touched by what an overwhelmingly positive response you guys had to him.)
> 
> [This](https://grifalinas.tumblr.com/post/181857534354/confetti-now-that-ive-caught-my-abra-i-can) is Jack D'Arcy, for the uninitiated. Art of the other two will be linked at the end of the chapter.

-/-

Gabriel hasn’t been back to the Mayfair flat since they left Much Ado About Clothing two days ago. He’s been at St. James- part of him is hoping to run into Lucifer again, so he can justify some kind of confrontation, something at least familiar, but mostly he just doesn’t want the temptation that comes from being alone with his own thoughts, so far from the comforting warmth of heaven’s light.

The trouble is, he doesn’t really know what he did to upset Jack, and nothing Crowley or Aziraphale had said has made it clear- he seemed to take Gabriel’s displeasure with their relationship  _ personally, _ and then there was their teasing- and Jack’s remark about being weak for a pretty face. It wouldn’t be the first time a human had been attracted to him, and the sting of rejection is always hard to witness, but something about Jack’s hurt hadn’t been about the  _ rejection, _ at least as near as he could tell.

He stops, and closes his eyes.  _ Oh Lord, _ he prays,  _ I know I’ve earned your disfavor, but a little guidance, at least. Help me find the right path. Help me understand… where I went wrong. _

Nothing. For a long moment the resentment bubbles in his middle, pushed down, buried, deep, deep— and then he  _ knows. _ He starts walking, letting Her guide his steps. Out of the park and through the London streets, turning here and there when he feels it’s right. He doesn’t know where but he trusts that She won’t steer him wrong.

In time, he finds his steps have brought him to a bookshop. Not a bookshop like Aziraphale’s, but a modern one, with cheery lighting and lots of places to read and a rainbow flag on the sign and a young woman with Neapolitan hair leaning casually in the doorway, watching him stare up at the sign.

_ Haven _ is the name of the bookstore, but even on the doorstep he can sense the humans’ feelings about this place pouring out, and judging by the intensity,  _ Heaven _ would be a more accurate name.

“Hallo,” the woman says, and the American accent washes over him like a comfortable blanket.

Gabriel is not American- he chose the accent on a whim, long before America or England or even the language he speaks with it had even existed. But he’s gotten rather fond of it, and hearing it spoken here, in England, so far from where he usually hears it, makes him realize just how out-of-place he feels on earth. He’s never wanted to feel in-place on earth, but without heaven’s light pulsing within him, he’s felt the ache of being out-of-place all the same.

_ (Is this how Beelzebub feels? How all of the Fallen feel? _ he thinks, and then buries the Question before he can ask it.)

“Coming in, or you just planning on standing on the doorstep looking pretty all day?” the woman asks, after a long, awkward silence. He blinks, and turns his attention from the sign to her.

“I’m looking for-“  _ Answers. _ “-understanding.”

She smiles. “I can offer that. Come on in.”

She leads him inside, and he follows- Haven is cosy, crammed with books in a way that feels welcoming, inviting, comforting in a way that Aziraphale’s shop never seems to. It doesn’t just feel like a place that sells material objects, it feels like a place that offers assurance. An anchor point. A-

“Haven,” he murmurs, and she hums acknowledgement. “It’s a harbor?”

“Shelter from the storm,” she agrees. “So what understanding are you looking for?”

He considers how best to explain, and decides on honesty- or at least something very much like it. “My cousin’s fiance told me I was acting like a queerphobic dickhead. I’m not really sure I understand what I was doing, or how it was wrong.”

“Ah. You’ll be wanting the ally books, then.” She turns her steps and leads him to a back corner, where a sign proclaims,  _ Book for Allies- For when you don’t want to make your ignorance their problem. _

“Thank you,” he says, and turns to the shelves to browse. The woman leans against one shelf, arms folded, and seems intent on watching him- or maybe she’s just waiting for more questions. For the moment, he ignores her, and turns his attention to the books.

There are a lot of titles, and a lot of them refer to things he doesn’t understand. After pulling books from the shelf at random and finding none of them feel like what he’s looking for, he decides to put his faith in Her again. He whispers another prayer for guidance and reaches for the shelf before he can have time to wonder if She’s listening.

He looks at the book he’s selected, and a half-hysterical laugh bubbles out of him, choking off on a sob.

_ Thank you, _ he thinks, staring at the cover of ‘Queer or Questioning: All The Answers To The Questions You’re Too Afraid To Ask’,  _ thank you for listening. _

-/-

With nothing better to do on earth, Beelzebub has gone back down to hell for the past few days to get her work done. There’s always lots of work to be done in hell, some of it actually necessary for the running of the place. When she gets back up to earth, she heads to the bookshop first.

On arrival, she finds Crowley out front, running reverent hands over that car of his while he murmurs to it. She sends a few of her flies close enough to hear him.

“Look at you,” he’s saying. “Most beautiful machine in the world, you are. How long have we been together? Ninety years- I know, there’s that whole flaming wreck business- shh, shh, it’s all right. Never again, yeah? We’ll make it centuries together, you and me-“

“Crowley,” Beelzebub drawls, noting with pleasure that he flinches but doesn’t startle or turn around. “Are you whispering sweet nothings to your car?”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I will.” She reaches a hand out to touch- there’s a certain magnetism to the shine of it- and then yanks her hand back when he hisses at her. To cover the motion, she says, “Does your fiance know you’re cheating on him with this machine?”

“Cheating’ implies a lack of openness and consent,” Crowley says. “Aziraphale knows he’s not the only love of my life.”

“It’s a  _ machine,” _ she says, and he shushes her.

“Don’t talk about my car like that, it’ll hear you.” He tilts his head to one side, considering, and then nods. “Right, get in.”

“What?”

“In. Before I change my mind- go on.”

She opens her mouth to argue on instinct, and then thinks better of it. She’s been itching to ride in the Bentley ever since Crowley told her she wasn’t allowed. She hurries around to the passenger side- well, hurries as much as she can while maintaining her dignity- and slides in just as Crowley is making himself comfortable in his own seat. It hugs around him like a glove, or like a lover’s embrace.

And then he peels out into traffic fast enough to slam her back into the seat, and her thoughts are focused on not discorporating, to the point there’s no room for anything else.

-/-

Beelzebub is able to think about more than just not vibrating her molecules apart approximately twenty minutes later, when Crowley throws the Bentley into a space in front of a shop with a sign reading ‘Where Sleeps Titania’ over the door. He grins over at her. She slowly, painfully, releases her grip on the dash and the door, peels herself out of the seat that she feels plastered to.

“Well?” he asks. “What do you think?”

“I,” she tries, and then, “Hrmngh,” and, on the third try, finds her tongue. “Doezz it… go fazzter?”

Crowley’s grin widens. “Once we leave here I’ll take you for a ride out of the city. We can really let go when there’s no traffic to worry about. But first I have to do something.”

Without further explanation he gets out of the car and strides up the building- Beelzebub following, of course- and heads inside.

‘Where Sleeps Titania’ turns out to be a flower shop, a small lobby fronting that opens into a greenhouse packed wall to wall and floor to ceiling with plants of all kinds behind it. Crowley goes to the counter and leans on it casually, reaching over to ding the bell only once he looks as obnoxious as possible. Beelzebub shoves her hands into her pockets and lets some of her flies slip out, buzzing over to inspect the various flowers and greenery while they wait.

Crowley ends up dinging the bell half a dozen times before a shout in the back alerts them that someone is coming, okay, just a  _ second, _ come on, and then a young man with an impractical scarf and a gaudily-painted prosthetic leg comes out from the greenhouse, carrying the business end of a hose with a very complicated nozzle. When he spots Crowley, his face goes from ‘good customer service’ to ‘pissed beyond all reason’ so fast that Beelzebub gets whiplash from witnessing it.

“Oh no.  _ Fuck _ no. Not you again- out, get out of my shop, I told you you’re not welcome here.”

“Oh, right,” Crowley says. “I forgot this guy hates me.”

-/-

There are comfortable chairs at the front of the shop, carefully placed to catch the sunlight streaming in through them. Gabriel commandeers one of them and starts reading. He should, he supposes, go back to Mayfair, where he can have some privacy, but the idea of sitting in the empty flat seems repulsive. He’ll live with the humans witnessing him reading a book of Answers, if it means not having to deal with the emptiness.

By the time the sun has gone down and the streets are less busy, Gabriel has made it all the way through the book of Answers and is replaying the conversation with Jack in his head, trying to find the place where he went wrong.

A movement to his side catches his eye, and the young proprietor of the shop takes a seat near him.

“So did you find what you were looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I think I understand… in general, now, what impression I was giving off. But I don’t know what I said that…”

“Why not tell me about it?” she suggests when he trails off. “I can be a neutral third party, maybe I can give you insight you don’t have.”

“Are you sure?” He nods toward the sign at the back corner. “I don’t want to… make my ignorance your problem.”

Surprisingly, she laughs at that. “That’s for people who are trying to gain general knowledge. At the end of the day, there’s no substitute for personal interaction. Now you just know how to ask your questions respectfully,” and, when he still looks hesitant, “I’m  _ inviting _ you to ask. I’m here to  _ help _ people find answers, it’s _literally_ my job.”

He nods, once, acquiescing. “My cousin’s fiance comes from a family that…” And trails off again almost immediately. How to explain it? “Our families… um… he keeps explaining it as ‘Romeo and Juliet, if Tybalt and Mercutio were planning the wedding instead of stabbing each other’. I don’t really know if that makes sense?”

She laughs. “No, it makes perfect sense, sums it up really well. So rival families, and your cousin is marrying someone from the other family?”

“Right,” he nods. “They weren’t even supposed to like each other, or interact at all, but then last year we found out that they’ve been conducting a secret relationship for- well, for awhile. The families cooperated to- to-  _ eject _ them from our number, but things didn’t go as planned at the time and- we’ve left them alone since then but then they got engaged and the, the heads of our families decided to extend their blessing by sending myself and- someone from the other family, to help them plan the wedding.”

“Jesus Christ,” the woman says, eyes wide. “No wonder the fiance called you a queerphobic dickhead.”

“That wasn’t why,” he says. “It didn’t even have anything to do with him. We were at my tailor’s, talking about wedding attire, and the planner from the other family- we made some… remarks, to the effect of not keeping a close enough eye on them so they could have their affair in the first place, and my tailor- he’s been my tailor for ten years now, I’d even almost call him someone I like- he-” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I think I offended  _ him. _ And we did  _ try _ to explain the situation, but I think the damage was done.”

“Yeah, I can imagine that wouldn’t have looked very good, you and this other person going on about how you should have done something to keep this couple apart. Queer, I’m assuming?”

“That’s what Crowley called them. I honestly never…” He trails off again. This is, as he understands now, a very big deal among humans, and he can’t exactly plead ignorance, or explain to this woman that queer isn’t a  _ thing _ among angels and demons, at least not the way she understands it. How can it be? Angels don’t fall in love. They don’t have genders or sexualities. Even if they did- even for those angels who for whatever reason make an effort- their corporeal forms are so impermanent and shifting and tied to their own will that defining themselves by either of those things would be absurd. [1]

She chuckles at that. “More concerned about the family of origin than anything else?”

“Something like that.”

“Mm. So what are you gonna do?”

“I have no idea. I don’t want my tailor thinking I’m… you know… but I don’t know how to explain the misunderstanding.” He glances at the book he’s been reading. “At least now I know why he’s upset.”

“That’s a start, at least.”

He nods, and looks around, an idea occurring to him.

“Do you by any chance have books about queer weddings?”

-/-

> [1- This from the angel who manifested a dick three thousand years ago and has yet to take it off.]

-/-

Crowley manages to persuade the florist- a man named Tobias Clearwater- to do the flowers for the wedding, on the condition that Crowley not be involved. That done, the pair head back to the Bentley.

“What did you do to that man?” Beelzebub asks, buckling in.

“Oh, he…” Crowley shrugs. “You know, found out what I do to the plants that don’t meet my expectations.”

“What do you do?”

“Garbage disposal. It’s their own fault for not growing properly.”

Beelzebub nods approvingly. This is, she agrees, the only right and proper way to deal with insubordinate subordinates. Make an example of the worst, and the rest will be too scared to follow their lead and will fall in line. Unless, of course, the example ends up being immune to the punishment, in which case whispers start, but she can’t see a houseplant being immune to a garbage disposal, so that’s all right for that situation.

Speaking of which. They’re on their way outside of the city now, as promised, and now that they’re alone without the angel anywhere in sight, there’s something she needs to know.

“Crowley.”

“Hm?”

“You don’t seem to mind me being around the way your angel does.”

“Ah, well. Hrm.” He shrugs. Makes a few noises, shrugs again. “He takes it all personally, you know. The whole Holy Water incident. Holds it against you, and all that.”

“And you don’t?”

He shrugs once more. His eyes are glued to the road, refusing to look at her. “Should I? It’s all just business as usual, really. Just how it is Down Below. Aziraphale doesn’t get that, but I can’t find it in me to hold it against you for just doing what you were meant to. Besides, I’m using all of my hatred up on Gabriel. Smug prick. Trying to murder my angel just for going against orders.”

“That’s very buzinesz as uzual for heaven,” she points out. “Cazting out traitorz.  _ We _ know that.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “But even then, they didn’t expect us to dive into the sulfur ourselves. And no one in hell ever pretends to have the moral high ground. That’s all.”

-/-

Crowley has plans to take Aziraphale to dinner tonight, so he gets them back to the bookshop just as Aziraphale is coming downstairs, dressed up for an evening of fine dining. Crowley looks him over appreciatively, and changes his own clothes to complement before offering his arm.

“Angel,” he breathes, almost a prayer. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale takes the offered arm, and the two head out, leaving Beelzebub on the curb.

She waits until the Bentley disappears, and turns her thoughts to Gabriel. She hasn’t seen him in days, but if she focuses, she can feel a strong concentration of holy energy across the river, in the direction of Crowley’s flat. She heads there. She wants to see him.

-/-

She lets herself into the flat without knocking, making her way through quietly until she reaches the plant room. Gabriel is in there, wings loose as he stares at the quivering houseplants. She stops short.

His wings are golden, she realizes, a deep burnished gold that fades to a light cream at the tips. They look a little rough compared to the average demon, but still fairly well kept.

A lump forms unbidden in her throat. It wasn’t like she expected him to have the same wings she knew him with, but knowing he’d changed them— knowing instead of simply not expecting… it  _ hurts. _ She swallows heavily, and clears her throat. His wings don’t vanish, as she thought they would, but he does put them away as he turns to see her in the doorway.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“All right?”

“I bought a book today.” He takes it from his pocket and shows it to her.  _ Weddings, L to A, _ the title reads. “Seems like it might be useful.”

“Gabriel,” she says, and she wants to ask,  _ why did you change them, _ but she doesn’t want to hear the answer because there’s no answer that could make her happy, so instead she says, “We have a meeting with the florist tomorrow. He refuses to work with Crowley so we have to go on our own.”

“Oh. All right. Sounds good.”

He doesn’t say anything else. She joins him staring at the plants, and wonders what he’s thinking.

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gabriel's wings](https://www.bto.org/sites/all/themes/egret/img/project-owl/Barn%20Owl%202016%20Liz%20Cutting%20F_600.jpg)
> 
> This is one of those chapters that I don't really like very much by the time I finish it, but I'm not sure if that's because of how much time I've spent trying to get it right vs the actual quality, and I've reached the point where I just have to release into the wild and hope for the best. Next chapter we can get back on track with the fun wedding shenanigans.
> 
> [Terry-Marie](https://grifalinas.tumblr.com/post/185275037714/stasney-keahi-and-terry-marie-the-three-main) (bookshop girl) and [Tobias Clearwater](https://grifalinas.tumblr.com/post/187234902239/apparently-i-never-posted-this-draw-of-hope-and) (florist). Terry-Marie is a child in her home-verse; imagining her as an adult was fun. Tobias actually prefers Dark, but he's not a superhero in this verse so he has to use his real name.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in behind the scenes development for this fic, toddle on over to Tumblr @grifalinas. There you can find cut scenes, brainstorming, and me making terrible jokes that may or may not make it into the final body of the work.


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